


The Red Wolf

by QuotethTheRaveneth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Game of Thrones (Video Game 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Sexual Assault, Character Death, Dominant Sansa, F/M, Masturbation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Oral Sex, POV Sandor, POV Sansa, Porn With Multitudes of Plot, Smut, Vaginal Fingering, warrior Sansa, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:15:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 68,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuotethTheRaveneth/pseuds/QuotethTheRaveneth
Summary: "I am Sansa Stark. The blood of the direwolf courses through my veins."Sansa Stark refuses to be a prisoner any longer. She will fight for what she wants and release the wolf inside her.





	1. The Wolf Awakens

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, SanSan fandom. So, this is my first ASoIaF fanfiction. Any and All criticism that you have to offer, whether it be good or bad, is welcome. In order for me to grow and improve as a writer hinges on it, and I do not mind if you criticize me on things that you do not like. My tumblr account is mysuiciderecovery if it is easier for you to give feedback there.
> 
> Also, Sansa's age (though she has not had her period in the start) is not explicitly stated, so feel free to imagine whichever age feels most comfortable for you. For Sandor, I like to imagine him looking like Rory McCann because I actually think he's a really good looking dude, but again you can imagine him however you like.
> 
> As well, please view the tags and view at your own discretion. This first chapter is the only one I planned that needed any trigger warnings, so here on out it should be pretty smooth sailing. (I mean, as smooth as you can get with ASoIaF). If anyone has any suggestion for tags, feel free to let me know as I'm really bad at tagging things.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy reading, and let me know if you like or dislike something!

Sansa Stark was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

The first time Sandor had seen her was when he’d rode through the gates of Winterfell, when Robert Baratheon had gone to visit Ned Stark. Robert had decided to bring his whole court and family along, and Sandor was Joffrey’s sworn shield. Truth be told, he hated the sadistic little shit. Before Joff was born, he’d been sworn to Cersei which hadn’t been much better. He didn’t know which had been worse, guarding the manipulative Lannister whore or the spoiled blond bastard.

Sansa had been a young girl when they’d arrived, and she was a beauty as everyone had ever said. Her fiery red hair had been plaited in a northern style, and a fur cloak was draped around her shoulders to combat the northern chill. Her Tully blue eyes sparkled when she saw the blond prince which had made a pang of annoyance spark within him. She’d no idea what kind of monster the brat truly was.

When he’d spoken to her for the first time, he’d seen the fear clearly written on her face, felt her form tremble at the sight of him when he’d placed his hands on her shoulders. He’d tried to reason with himself, that she’d simply backed into him and it’d startled her. He’d seen her glance at him multiple times as they travelled, but surely, she was just curious and not afraid. He even made a small jape at the girl to try and show her that he was no threat to her, but she’d knelt to her snarling wolf and hugged the animal close to her. When the prince had ordered him away, anger had begun to consume him as it had many times before, resolving in his mind that she was the same as all the other highborn ladies. Only interested in “honorable” knights and twittering their false courtesies and compliments.

He hadn’t spoken to her again until the Tourney for the Hand when Joffrey had ordered him to escort her back to the Keep. Sometimes when he thought back to that night, a small feeling of regret would flood his chest. He’d ended their conversation so horribly, and it had done nothing but make her fear him more.

He could do nothing but look at her that night, the pretty little bird in her green dress. She’d been so disappointed that her chivalrous prince wouldn’t be escorting her. She’d tried to rouse her drunk septa next to her, probably trying to find a way out of being escorted by the Lannisters’ ugly dog. That night she’d found the courage to actually speak to him, her soft pretty voice chirping about gallantry, but still she could not stand to look at him.

So he forced her to look at him, grabbed her pretty little chin and made her meet his gaze, bringing the torchlight closer so she could see his scars for all they are. When she’d started crying, anger once again consumed him. He snuffed out the flame and allowed her to look away, so that she couldn’t see how angry and hurt he was. Not just at her, but at himself as well for his treatment of her. He’d gotten so lost in his anger that he’d told her what his brother, _Ser_ Gregor Clegane, had done to him. How he’d burnt Sandor’s face simply for playing with a toy that Gregor had no interest in.

Then the fear had left her eyes, a thing that Sandor saw with wonder and awe. Sometimes he thought that it was simply his drunken mind making things up. But she’d touched him, lightly caressed her hand over his shoulder with such gentleness as though he’d break at her touch. After he’d frightened her, made her cry, and tremble at his touch, she’d shown him a compassion with which he’d never known.

When he’d threatened her, the fear returned to her eyes for the briefest moment. Then she’d steeled her expression and nodded.

The next day, he’d defended the Knight of Flowers against his massive brother after he’d seen the tears in her eyes when Gregor advanced on Loras. He’d known then that he was doomed. That night he’d spent his winnings on Dornish wine and red headed whores, a foolish way to somehow drown the pretty little bird from his mind.

He hadn’t seen her again until the day he’d joined the Kingsguard. When she’d stepped forward and kneeled on Barristan’s discarded white cloak, a relieved feeling had filled him at the sight of her. He’d known that she wasn’t dead; Joff and Cersei had talked about her enough for him to know that she was still alive at least. Seeing her in front of him, unharmed, reassured him that she was safe. How long that would last, he was uncertain.

And he’d _missed_ her. He hadn’t even realized it until then.

She’d begged for her father’s life that day for all the eyes of the court to see, wearing a dark silk dress in mourning for the late King Robert. She’d looked so pretty with her dewy blue eyes gazing up at Joffrey with so much hope. Yet Sandor knew that it’d be futile. The bastard king was a sadistic little cunt, and that shit Littlefinger had manipulated Joff effortlessly to behead Eddard Stark for his treason.

The day of Lord Stark’s execution had been a complete shitshow. The Little Bird had dressed and cleaned herself so beautifully, and she’d looked so happy when she saw her father. Joffrey had smiled at her, right before he’d called for the winter lord’s head. Cersei had pleaded with the boy to “stop this madness”. So had the spider, Varys.

Sansa had let out a mournful scream, falling on her knees on the steps of Baelor. He thought that she might turn away, but she’d kept her tearful eyes on her father the entire time, even as his head had been lopped off and blood poured from his headless neck.

Then she’d fainted, and he’d been tasked to take her back to her room. She was featherlight when he picked her up, and her hair smelled of lemons and lavender. He took the longest route he could take, just so he’d be enveloped by her scent just a little longer. When he’d laid her gently down in her bed, she’d stirred and red eyes blinked open to gaze up at him sadly.

“Was it real?” she’d asked with the tiniest bit of hope in her voice.

He’d only stared down at her with a blank expression. “Yes, little bird.”

She’d turned over so she was facing away from him, a small sob escaping her as she nuzzled her face into her pillow. He’d reached out to caress her, comfort her, the way she’d done for him that one night during the Hand’s tourney, but thought better of it. He left her to her grief.

It had been days until he saw her again, and when the light hit her as Joffrey pulled back the curtains his heart ached for her. Her skin was pale from the depravation of sunlight, eyes dull, and she was unbelievably skinny from not eating. He tried to be as gentle as he could allow with her frail body when Joff ordered him around like the dog he was.

“I hate you,” she’d said to the bastard with a weak ferocity.

Sandor’s eyes widened out of pure shock. He’d always known her as the demure, chirping little bird. Always sweet with a kind word to say. Hearing such harsh words from her was almost world shattering.

Joff commanded Meryn Trant to hit her then and hit her he did, so hard in fact that her ear started bleeding and she’d fallen to the floor. A low growl escaped from Sandor’s throat when Trant had struck her, though no one heard thankfully. It took everything he had in him to restrain himself from killing Meryn and the bastard king with his bare hands.

The only thing he could offer her in terms of protection were words. She had to give Joff what he wanted, and she’d be safe.

When she’d shown up to court later, she’d been wearing the green dress she wore for the tourney, the skin under her eyes dark and still wet from the tears she’d shed. A big, ugly bruise that she’d tried to cover up with makeup was starting to form on the side of her face where Trant had hit her. Her expression was cold when Joffrey approached her, though it brightened only slightly when she saw Sandor. Why that was, he wasn’t sure.

When they made it to the battlements littered with the rotting heads of the Stark men, Joff commanded her to look at her father’s head. She looked on them with a blank, dead look on her face. Sandor couldn’t tell what she was thinking. As Joffrey walked with her across a small wooden bridge, he made a cruel jape at her expense, saying that he’d present her with her brother’s head.

“Maybe my brother will give me _your_ head.” Sandor’s lip twitched on the burnt side when she’d threatened the boy king. Nothing he could’ve said, wanted to say, would save her from her punishment. Joff commanded Meryn to hit her, and he grabbed her roughly by her pretty little chin like Sandor had done what seemed like so long ago. Though, his touch had been gentle he’d hoped. Meryn slapped her twice across both cheeks, and her lip had split open, blood dripping down from the wound.

When she’d turned back to the king, an expression overtook her face which he’d known quite well. A look of pure hatred lined with a bloodlust. She wanted to kill the boy, shove him right off the battlements. She would’ve too, if Sandor hadn’t have stepped in between them. If she’d succeeded in taking him down, she’d have either fallen with him or been executed the next day.

He knelt in front of her wiping the blood from her lip away with a ragged cloth he had in his pocket. When her gaze met his, the wolfish face she wore softened, and she looked at him in a way no one had ever looked at him before.

On Joffrey’s name day, he’d been guarding the king during the tourney when she’d shown up. She’d looked undeniably beautiful in her purple silk gown and moonstone hairnet, her auburn hair cascading in curls down her back. Unbidden, thoughts came to him of fucking her against a wall, her skirts hiked up to her waist and singing her song as he thrust into her.

He scolded himself for these thoughts. She’d not bled yet and was still a child. Not only that, she was a prisoner here, a wolf pup trapped in a den of lions and snakes and spiders. He was a Lannister dog, and she’d be appalled at her being the subject of his fantasies.

When Joffrey took her hand in his, her dagged sleeves drew back a bit, the smallest hint of bruises revealing themselves. His hands balled into fists at his sides. He would’ve happily killed anyone who’d hurt her: Meryn Trant, Boros Blount, the whole lot of them. He liked to think that someday he would.

When she’d spoken up in defense of that bumbling drunk fool, Ser Dontos Hollard, the only thing he could do was offer words to protect her. When she’d lied terribly to Joff about how it was bad luck to kill someone on their name day, he’d lied right along with her. She’d given him a thankful look, not only delaying the drunkard’s inevitable end, but _saving_ his life, when she’d told Joffrey to make him a fool instead.

Sandor’s heart pounded in his chest at her courage and daring. She’d be a good queen someday, and maybe she’d learn how to rein in the cruel king.

The whores had stopped doing it for him after that. He’d tried taking them from behind, but their faked cries of pleasure kept him from reaching his end. He’d had them suck his cock, but that didn’t work either. He’d eventually just have to take himself in his hand and after he’d felt _disgusted_ with himself, _guilty_ , for reasons he wasn’t completely sure of yet.

He’d taken to drinking instead to offset the absence of pleasure. He’d drank a lot before but not as much as he was now. Any free chance he got, he drank and drank until he couldn’t see straight. Sometimes, it did the job well, other times, it made his fantasies run even more wild. He’d woken up every morning with a throbbing headache ever since.

He’d already been extensively drunk when he’d caught her in the serpentine stairwell he’d taken refuge in. In the morning, he’d cursed his misfortune, but in that moment, he’d wanted to have her right then and there. He’d kept himself in check to the best of his ability; she was still a prisoner and a child, and he would not force himself on her.

It was getting hard to resist, though. His drunken mind had taken in her new womanly form. Her face had begun to take on more angular features. Her breasts and hips, _Gods_ , they’d begun to strain in her dresses with how much she’d filled out. She’d need new clothes soon.

When he’d demanded where she’d gone to so late in the night, she’d lied to him. Partially, but terribly as well. She was an awful liar. He didn’t particularly care, she had no reason to trust him, and why would she? He was the king’s dog, the king who’d had her beaten and given her bruises and scars that may eventually heal, but they’d remain forever etched into her soul. He knew enough about scars to know that.

In his drunken stupor, he’d said nasty things to her, about her body, about how stupid she was, mocking her and asking for a song. Still, she never cowered from him. He’d gently pushed her forward so that he could escort her back to her rooms. When they’d made it to the drawbridge leading to Maegor’s Holdfast, she shivered at the sight of Boros Blount who was on guard duty. He’d placed a hand on her shoulder with a tenderness, whispering reassuringly to her that she had nothing to fear.

 _I’ll protect you,_ he’d wanted to say. Seeming to sense his unspoken words, she’d relaxed and her trembling stopped. He could’ve sworn that she’d even sighed when he’d touched her, but it was probably his intoxicated mind weaving falsehoods.

She told Boros the same lie that she’d told Sandor, and he’d backed her up, doing whatever he could to keep the little bird safe.

Once they were out of earshot from Blount, she’d spoken to him. She’d asked him why he’d allow everyone to call him dog but not a knight. She’d looked at him with sadness and hurt in her eyes, but his drunk state took it as pity and it angered him. He would not accept her pity. He’d stalked towards her until her body was pressed against the wall and he was towering over her. She’d averted her eyes then, looking to the ground.

Just like the night of the Tourney, he’d gone into another speech. He said that he liked dogs better than knights. He told her of his grandfather, about how he’d been a kennelmaster at Casterly Rock and how he’d saved Tytos Lannister from a ravenous lioness, losing a leg in the process, and gaining a lordship and lands in return. How the three dogs on his yellow banner represented the hounds that had died to the beast.

“A hound will die for you, but never lie to you. And he’ll look you straight in the face,” he’d said, pulling her face up so he could gaze into her pretty blue eyes.

He’d demanded a song from her, and something strange had happened. When she’d told him she’d sing for him gladly, he couldn’t sense the lie. She looked at him without fear, without resistance. She didn’t know exactly what he was asking for, he concluded in his own mind. He wanted a different kind of song from her, and he’d still called her a liar.

He left her with a warning; she couldn’t trust anyone, they were all liars and much better at it than she.

He’d come to her one morning to escort her to the throne room on the king’s order. He’d tried to keep his tone gentle as she fixed her hair and finished buttoning up her dress. She’d sensed his grief which caused her to become a little flustered, her hands shaking so hard she could barely finish.

When they reached the throne room, his heart caught in his throat when he saw Joffrey winding his crossbow and placing a bolt. The little bird fell to her knees as soon as they reached the dais, chirping her courtesies, and begging for mercy. The boy ordered him to pull her up. When he’d softly lifted her to her feet, she looked at him pleadingly, silently begging him for his help. It only made him feel worse.

Lancel stepped forward when the king ordered him to tell her what had made the bastard so livid. He shouted out to the court of how her brother had ambushed Stafford, Joff’s great uncle whom the king didn’t truly care for.

He’d be punishing her all the same.

When the king had mentioned Lady, though, Sansa’s expression became stone and fierce as she glared up at him and defended the dead animal’s honor. She did not flinch as Joffrey continued his verbal abuse. When he ordered Sandor to beat her, he opened his mouth to try and make some excuse to keep from hurting her.

If he beat her, he’d never be able to forgive himself.

Just before he was about to object, Dontos the fool called out that he would beat her in the Hound’s place. Sandor seethed at the prospect, but the drunkard was only armed with a morningstar that had a melon in place for the ball of the weapon. Though it would still hurt her, the pain would be duller than his own gauntleted hands. The fool swung at her head, and after four strikes, the melon split apart covering her in melon juice.

The blonde bastard had not been close to satisfied, though. He ordered Blount and Trant forward. Boros yanked her towards him by the shoulder, bringing his fist pounding into her stomach. The force had caused the air to completely escape from her lungs, and she began to fall on her knees. Before she could hit the ground, Boros clutched a fistful of auburn hair in his hand. When he’d drawn his sword and beat the precious little bird on the back of the thighs with the flat of the blade, she cried out in pain. Sandor could feel the bile rising in his throat. He couldn’t bear it anymore.

“Enough,” he growled out, his voice menacing yet broken at the same time.

Joff had not caught his tone. “Boros, make her naked.”

Blount tore roughly at the front of her dress, ripping the buttons and seams down to her waist. She quickly lifted an arm to cover herself. As the bastard started giving his next command, Sandor lifted his hand to the hilt of his sword.

Then the Imp entered and it was over. Boros dropped her and both the so-called knights backed away from her. For a short while, Sandor could hear nothing but his heartbeat ringing through his ears and her broken breathing as she fell on her knees. When Tyrion called for someone to cover her, Sandor stepped down the dais immediately. Never taking his eyes off her, he unfastened his cloak and knelt down in front of her. When he draped the fabric around her small body, she’d reached a hand out and grazed her fingertips lightly over his gauntlet covered hands. His heart jolted to life, wishing that he’d forgone wearing that piece of armor so that he would’ve been able to feel her flesh against his own.

His eyes did not leave her form an instant as she left the hall with the dwarf.

The day of the bread riots still made his blood boil every time he thought of it. They’d all been gathered on the shore of the Blackwater Bay, seeing Princess Myrcella off to Dorne. Tommen cried and sniveled the whole while, and Joffrey had picked on his brother Tommen as he sobbed, calling him a suckling babe and saying that princes don’t cry. Sansa had given him a cold look as she explained how Aemon Targaryen cried when Naerys married his brother Aegon, and the twins Sers Arryk and Erryk had cried when they’d given each other mortal wounds. Joff had threatened her after that.

They’d been riding the horses when the riot had broken out. A woman had pushed past two of the watchmen that had surrounded them, holding her lifeless baby out to the king and crying something fierce. Joffrey had moved to run her down, but the little bird stopped him, placing a hand on his wrist and leaning over. The sight was too intimate, and it made Sandor sick.

“Can’t you do something for her, my king?”

Joffrey flicked a silver stag at the woman, the coin bouncing off the child’s head and rolling out into the crowd. Though seeing her touch Joff had sickened him, he was impressed with her intuition. She was slowly learning how to control the sadistic little shit. Maybe, eventually, he wouldn’t have to worry about protecting her so much.

Then Cersei had to open her mouth. The woman shrieked when she heard the regent’s voice, calling her a whore and a brother fucker. That was when the dung had splattered against Joff’s head, the splash covering the skirts of Sansa’s dress. Sondor had liked that dress on her.

Joff started screaming then, which only aided in riling the crowd up even more. He demanded that the man who’d defiled him be brought forward, and Sansa pleaded with him to just let it go. Joffrey couldn’t move on, though. When he’d ordered Sandor to go capture the culprit, he’d dismounted Stranger to go searching through the crowd. There was no point in trying to calm the king. He’d just grab some unfortunate soul from the crowd. Better to die a swift beheading rather than starve, he reasoned.

Everything happened so fast after that. A fury of rage had chorused from the crowd as Joff continued shouting, along with more dung and rocks being thrown out. The rest of the party, along with Stranger, galloped ahead towards the palace. He’d been left behind in the confusion, and he searched around for an extra horse. He noticed the horse that Sansa had been mounted on moments before, but she wasn’t there anymore.

A rage like one he hadn’t known for a while had possessed him in that instant. He desperately searched through the crowd for any sign of where she might be. A flash of red streaked in his peripheral, and he charged towards it, cutting down anyone and anything that got in his way. He’d found her in a stable being pinned down by four men, her skirts had been ripped and two of the men had her legs spread apart while a third man was preparing to take his pleasures from her.

His fury had reached its peak when he approached, gutting the first man who’d been on top of her, watching the life agonizingly drain from his soul. He’d slit the throats of the two that held her legs, and when the fourth had tried to attack him, he’d shoved his sword clean through the man’s belly, twisting the blade as he died.

A sob brought him back to his senses once he’d killed them. He turned around, softening his expression as he gazed down at his little bird. She’d been huddled up in the corner, tears streaming down her face as she held her knees. He approached her slowly, doing all he could to show her that she was safe now. He knelt in front of her. His emotions got the better of him as he memorized her disheveled features. He laid his sword on the ground and delicately caressed her cheek, resting his forehead against hers. The blood on his gauntlet left stains on her pretty porcelain skin, but she didn’t shy away from his touch.

“You’re all right, little bird. You’re safe now,” he’d said through ragged breaths, stroking a thumb across her cheekbone.

“I know.”

He’d had to carry her over his shoulder all the way back to the keep. Her horse had either run off in fright or had been killed and eaten. When he’d been questioned later on whether or not she still had her maidenhead, he’d told all of them that it was still intact even though he didn’t really know.

It didn’t matter what he said. She’d still need her virtue verified by Maester Pycelle.

He’d gone to her rooms first, but she was not there, which was odd for how early it was.

“She’s gone to the godswood, m’lord,” her black-haired handmaiden told him.

“I’m not a lord,” he growls as he turns away.

The godswood is bathed in the amber rays of the morning as he strolls through. The grove is lush with many elm, alder, and black cottonwood trees, and the cobblestones beneath his feet are littered with roots and grass clambering to reclaim the grounds, poking out between the cracks, and reaching for the sunlight. As he approaches the great oak at the end of the pathway, he stops, taking in the sight before him.

Sansa, his little bird, is kneeling amongst the dragon’s breath with her back turned to him, the red leaves of the oak falling around her. Her lilac silk dress clings to her form, accentuating her growing curves. Small pockets of daylight shine through the leaves, and all the red around makes her auburn hair glow with an ethereal radiance. He falters on the stones beneath him, the noise breaking through the serenity of the atmosphere. He feels guilty when she turns to him immediately, her eyes filled with unshed tears and fear. She looks at him for a moment as though he weren’t real before letting out the smallest of sighs and turns away from him, a pang of hurt twisting in his gut.

“Still can’t stand these scars, can you?” he scowls, though he is surprised that she was able to keep her gaze on him for so long, having been startled.

 _Don’t kid yourself, dog,_ he thinks, _She probably thought you were a monster._

“No- I mean, it is not what you think,” she stutters, “I was only praying and my emotions took hold of me.”

He is silent for a second before withdrawing a scruffy handkerchief from his mailed sleeve. “Dry your eyes, little bird, and calm yourself. If Joff hears of this, he’ll make it worse for you.” He stands at her side, offering her the cloth. She takes it from his outstretched hand.

“Thank you, ser.”

“I’m not a ser, and stop your chirping.”

“I’m sor- “she stops herself, “Very well. Have you come to pray as well?”

“I’m here to take you to Maester Pycelle,” he tells her truthfully, “He’s to check your maidenhead to make sure it’s unbroken.”

Her eyes widen as she gazes up at him. “You told them I wasn’t violated.”

“I did, but they want to check to make sure.” Fresh tears sprung to her eyes at his words. “Stop your crying, girl. You’ll only make it worse for yourself.”

“Must you be so cruel to me?” she questions, an accusatory tone overtaking her voice.

It sickened him that her tone turned him on so much. She was so passive and timid that anytime she stood up for herself or said how she felt, it took an effect on him.

“I’m being honest, this is how it has to be,” he growls.

She huffs and stands, shoving the handkerchief back in his hand. She walks ahead of him at a fast pace, and he falls into step behind her. Their journey to the rookery was made in silence for the most part, until the little bird broke their quiet.

“I was thinking of my father while I was praying,” she said, her voice soft, “I could feel him with me, and that’s why I cried.” He kept his silence as they climbed the stairs, deciding not to spoil her mood again, especially after confiding in him such an intimate detail. Why she’d resolved to do so, he couldn’t be sure.

When they make it to the Grand Maester’s chambers, Sansa knocks nervously on the hard surface of the door. When the door opens, Pycelle registers their presence with sleepy eyes.

“Aw, Lady Sansa, I’ve been expecting you,” he greets as he strokes his beard.

“Good morning, Maester,” Sansa says. Sandor rolls his eyes at her courtesy. “How has your morning treated you?”

“Well enough,” he answers, his voice trembling, “I haven’t been able to tend to all my duties in a timely manner, I’m afraid. I don’t have all my equipment set up for you yet. Used to I’d have my obligations done before breaking my fast, but those times are long gone.” He opened the door a little wider to allow her inside. “Please, my Lady, come inside and we can get this done.”

“I’ll escort the little bird back to her chambers when she’s finished up here,” Sandor says as Sansa steps forward.

“Actually, Clegane, I need you to come inside,” Pycelle says, his words halting Sansa in her tracks.

Sansa locks eyes with Sandor, her features blanching before turning back to the Grand Maester. “Why does he need to come in?”

“Well, my Lady, we need to have a witness here to confirm your maidenhead is either taken or not, so that there’s no confusion.” He leaves the door open as he hobbles over to a table in the center of his chambers, a device half put together on top of it. “Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable. It’ll only take a moment.”

Sansa took a seat in one of the chairs, as Sandor follows behind her. He closes the door, opting to stand as far away from her as he can get. The room is filled with an uncomfortable silence as Pycelle proceeds to screw stirrups onto the strange contraption. Sandor chances a glance at the little bird; her face is a mask of no feeling, staring blankly ahead as if she were a lifeless husk.

“It’s ready,” Pycelle says, gathering a few tools and potions and laying them out on the table. “If you would, Lady Sansa, go behind the partition and remove your smallclothes. You can leave your dress on.”

She stands not looking at either one of them as she disappears behind the partition. A couple minutes later she is back, her features still wearing the same expression if not a little flushed.

“Lift your skirts to your thighs and sit at the end of the table.” She does as she’s bid. Sandor turns his face away from her to give her some sense of modesty and dignity. “Now, shuffle backwards a bit so you can settle your feet into these stirrups right here.” She spreads her legs before Pycelle, a sickening stab twisting in Sandor’s gut at the sight. His hand tightens around the pommel of his sword. “You can lay back, my Lady. Just relax and this will be over soon.”

Pycelle grabs a pair of tongs from his assortment of tools before vanishing underneath Sansa’s skirts. After a few moments of awkward waiting, he reemerges, looking at Sandor expectantly. “Clegane, come here a moment.” Sandor feels bile threaten to travel up the back of his throat as he makes his way to the other side of the table. Sansa’s face is so red, it matches her hair. “Do you see that thin piece of skin at her opening?” Sandor looks for just a second, to confirm that it’s there without embarrassing Sansa more than she already is. He is a little relieved at seeing the intact maidenhead, knowing for sure that she hadn’t been raped before he made it, but revolted at the little bird’s privacy being invaded in such a manner. Sandor nods.

“Good. That’s all that needs to be done. I will inform the Queen Regent on the status of your maidenhead, Lady Sansa. You may put your smallclothes on and leave,” Pycelle says as he starts gathering up his equipment.

Sansa quickly pushes herself off the table, smoothing her skirts over her legs before withdrawing behind the partition once again. Their trip back to her chambers is filled with an uncomfortable silence.

**…**

Sansa is back in the godswood once again, the large oak tree looming above her in a comforting manner. How she got there, she cannot remember. For some reason, no matter how hard she thinks on it, she cannot recall how she came to be there or why she’s there. She is kneeling on the grass, her hands folded in her lap. Dragon’s breath surrounds her form, and the sun is almost blindingly bright as it shines through the leaves. She feels light and carefree, completely at ease with her surroundings.

A scraping on stone breaks her out of her musing, and she turns to find Sandor Clegane standing on the cobblestone pathway. He is staring at her as though she were a goddess, a look of awe and peace overtaking his features. She feels as though she is probably looking at him the same way, for this is the first time she has looked upon him and not seen hatred and anger darkening his eyes. His scars are still there, looking just as terrible as she’s always thought them, but it was never his face she feared.

“Little bird,” he says. His voice is soft with just a hint of his natural gravel scratching beneath the surface. Her heart catches in her throat with the way he says his nickname for her. “You promised me a song.”

Suddenly, her mind is drawing a blank. “I…I don’t remember any songs, ser.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, his teeth peeking out to bite at his lip. Her eyes are drawn to the gesture. “I’m not a ser, little bird. Did you forget?” He starts walking slowly towards her.

She furrows her brows at him. “What should I call you then?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“Whatever you wish.” He’s still coming to her. “Sing me a song, little bird.”

Almost as if he’d willed it, the song of Florian and Jonquil came to mind. The song slips past her lips, it’s melody dancing through the tranquil air:

_Six maids in a pool, they’re of noble blood._

_One fool, but great, on a shore,_

_He’d seen that flower, a fool of love,_

_“She’ll be in my garden,” he’d swore._

Sandor barks out a laugh as she sings, interrupting her. “A fool and his cunt,” he jests. He is right in front of her now, backing her into the bark of the oak.

She blushes at the use of his language. “Sandor, we are in a holy place.”

His eyes darken at the use of his name. “’Sandor’, now, is it?”

“Do you want me to call you something else?” she asks in a timid voice.

His hands are at her waist now and he is pushing her against the tree, his weight pressing against her. “No, I will make you sing my name.” He leans his head down and captures her lips in a rough kiss. Her hands automatically come up to rest on his cheeks, holding him in place. Her face and neck are tingling as he kisses her, and she sighs. He lifts her up against the tree, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. He breaks the kiss, and she whines from the separation. His face moves to her ear, the burnt side of his face caressing her skin. “Sing for me, little bird.” He bites down on her neck while his hips jerk forward against her, an unfamiliar sensation of pleasure blossoming below her tummy.

A moan escapes from her throat.

Her eyes open as the first rays of morning peak through the curtains. Instead of the godswood, she is huddled beneath the covers of her bed, naked as her nameday. She feels a foreign wetness between her legs that she’s never felt before and panic fills her. She jerks back the covers, examining her thighs and womansplace. Finding no blood, she relaxes, relieved to see that she has not bled.

Her mind begins reeling once again when she remembers her dream, her face burning with a flush and the wetness below somehow becoming worse. For some reason, she’d dreamt of Sandor Clegane, of him kissing her and biting her neck. Perhaps it had been a trick of her mind. Dreams were often a fickle thing and didn’t make much sense, and this one certainly didn’t. Yet, it’d felt so good, so unbelievably perfect.

A knock at her door broke her reverie. “M’lady, I’m here with your bath,” calls Shae from the other side of the door.

Sansa sits up in bed, smoothing out the covers and crossing her legs beneath. “Come in.”

Shae enters with two other handmaidens. One places a food tray on Sansa’s table before leaving while Shae and the other handmaiden empty hot water into her bath. Once that’s done, the other handmaiden leaves. Shae closes and bolts the door before approaching Sansa. Sansa lifts herself from the bed, making her way to the bath. She slowly lowers herself into the scalding water, the heat helping to calm her rattled nerves. She begins to wash herself with a scented bar of soap while Shae starts stripping the bed.

The rustling of the covers halts abruptly. “Sansa, your sheets are wet,” Shae says bluntly.

Sansa’s face burns with a bright blush at her words. “Shae!”

“What?” Shae laughs, “It doesn’t look like piss. Did you have an orgasm?”

She doesn’t know exactly what she is talking about, but Sansa still feels flustered at Shae’s line of questioning. “Shae, it’s not polite to ask a lady such intimate things.”

Shae lifts a brow. “Do you even know what an orgasm is?”

“Of course I do,” she lies, “Please, just finish with that and come wash my hair.”

Shae smirks as she stuffs the sheets in a burlap sack and comes to her side. She lathers some scented oil in her hands and begins massaging it into Sansa’s scalp. They sit in a discomfited silence as Sansa continues to wash herself, and Shae washes her hair. Sansa’s thoughts go back to her dream, how Sandor had gripped her tightly at the waist and kissed her lips. The ache between her legs was back, and Sansa has grown curious.

“Shae, have you ever done anything with a man?” she asks.

Shae furrows her brows. “Like what?”

“You know,” Sansa starts, fiddling with her fingers beneath the water’s surface. “Has a man ever laid with you?” Sansa felt scandalous discussing this with her handmaiden. She used to only speak of these types of things with Jeyne Pool, and even then, they weren’t of this intimate in nature. Now Jeyne was gone and the only person she could talk to about this was Shae. She trusted Shae enough to know that she wouldn’t go to Cersei or Joffrey with anything she said.

“Yes,” Shae answers.

Sansa turns to the dark-haired woman, her eyes widening in astonishment. “You have?”

“You seem so surprised,” Shae laughs.

“It’s just that- “Sansa struggles with the words, she is so surprised, “I didn’t know you were married.”

“I’m not.”

“Then how…” Sansa is genuinely confused.

Shae laughs, “I like to fuck.”

Sansa’s cheeks color. “So, you enjoy it?”

“Men are not the only ones who can take pleasure during sex, m’lady.” Sansa’s mind is spinning with this new information. “Do these questions have something to do with the wet spot in your bed?”

“Maybe,” Sansa says, her voice soft, “I had a dream last night.”

Shae begins rinsing the oil out of Sansa’s hair. “About what?”

Sansa blushes. She couldn’t tell her about how she’d dreamt of Sandor. She knew that he’d been right. She couldn’t trust anybody. “My king, of course. He wanted me to sing for him.”

“And did you?”

“Yes. Then he kissed me and lifted me in his arms. I felt a strange feeling in my…my womansplace…then I woke up.” Sansa turns to the handmaiden, suddenly feeling insecure and self-conscious. “Please, you mustn’t tell anyone about this.”

“I won’t,” Shae says, and Sansa can see in her face that she’s being sincere.

Shae helps Sansa out of the bath and helps her dress. Once she’s been secured in her dress, she sits at her vanity as Shae brushes out her hair.

A curiosity overwhelms her as Shae braids her hair. “How do I please a man?”

Shae raises a brow at her. “Do you _want_ to please your king?”

“Of course, I love Joffrey with all my heart,” Sansa lies.

Shae smirks. “Did your mother ever explain to you how to lay with someone?”

“She only said to let my husband do what he needed with me and never question him,” Sansa tells her.

“It’s a little more complicated than that. Do you know anything else?” Sansa shakes her head, a little embarrassed at her inexperience.

Shae pulls a chair from the table to sit next to Sansa, holding the hairbrush so the handle is pointing up. “When a man’s cock is hard, any touch against it can be pleasurable.” Shae grazes her fingertip across the wooden surface. “However, every man likes different things done to him.” She closes her hand in a fist around the handle. “Some men like to be taken in hand while others like to be taken with tongue and mouth.”

“He might want me to…” Sansa feels sick at the thought of having to stick Joffrey’s member in her mouth.

“It is not so bad as you think. If you ever have it done on you, you will understand.” Sansa blushes at the idea of someone wanting to put their mouth on her womansplace. Shae continues, “Experiment with different things. Learn what he likes in order to please him, and he’ll do the same for you. You should masturbate to learn what feels good for you, so that you can help him.”

Sansa furrows her eyebrows. “Masturbate?”

“Touch yourself on your womansplace.”

Sansa feels her face heat up again. These were things she’d never even known of. “Do you really believe Joffrey would want to please me?”

Shae shrugs. “If he doesn’t you could always take someone else to bed.”

Sansa’s eyes widen so much, her eyes could’ve popped out of her head, “Shae!”

“You will be a queen,” Shae says simply, smiling mischievously, “A queen can lay with whoever she wants.”

Sansa shakes her head. “Joffrey would have his kingsguard beat me.” Sansa shuddered. “Or kill me. I don’t think I should even be talking about this.”

Just then, a knock sounds at her door.

“Little bird, I’m here to escort you to the king,” Sandor’s voice calls.

“Just a minute,” Sansa answers. She turns her attention back to Shae. “Please, don’t speak of this to anyone.”

“I swear it, m’lady, I will not.”

The minute Sansa sees Sandor’s face she is reminded of her dream, and the space between her legs becomes wet again from its own accord. Sandor gives her a strange look. “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

“What do you mean, Sandor?” she asks.

He seems taken aback by something, then she realizes this is the first time she’s used his first name. “Well, -uh, your whole face is beet red. Your neck and ears, too.”

She brings her hands up to her cheeks, the warmth radiating against her palms. She folds her hands in front of her stomach, willing her nerves to calm and her thoughts to quiet. “Forgive me, I don’t feel too well today.”

“Do you need me to get a maester?” he asks almost instantaneously, a look of worry on his features.

“No, I’ll be fine,” she says quickly, “Take me to my betrothed, please.”

He leads her towards the king’s bedchambers while she follows, taking the opportunity to study her companion’s features. She knows how tall and strong he is. _The Warrior incarnate,_ she thinks as she examines his physique. His brow is heavy set over his eyes, and a trimmed, full beard surrounds his mouth, leading up his jaw towards his hairline. Honestly, his scars weren’t the worst thing about his appearance, aside from the story of how they got there. It was his eyes that instilled the most fear in her, so filled with malice and loathing.

She missed the way he’d gazed upon her in the godswood.

When they’d made it to Joffrey’s bedchambers, her stomach twisted and filled with dread. _What kind of tortures has he prepared for me today?_ She wondered, her heart becoming heavy within her chest.

As Sandor opens the door for her and she enters, a crossbow bolt whizzes past her shoulder and shatters a vase on a small stand. Sandor pushes his way in front of her, an arm held out protectively. She gasps out, her eyes widening in shock. Ser Meryn claps in praise of his king from a far corner of the room.

“Ah, Sansa, you’ve come.” Joffrey smiles at her as though he hadn’t done anything wrong. “I was just practicing my aim. What do you think?”

She straightens her back, holding her head high. “It is remarkable, my king.” Her tone is steel and holds no emotion behind it, though she does not care anymore and he doesn’t truly care either. As long as she says what he wants to hear, it will not anger him.

Though, sometimes she doesn’t care about _angering_ him either.

“Of course, it’s remarkable,” Joffrey says dismissively, as though she were stupid, “I’m the Protector of the Realm. Everything I do is remarkable.”

“Of course, my king.”

He turns to her, the look of adoration on his face causing bile to catch in her throat. He reaches out to her and holds her chin in his hand, his thumb lightly caressing her bottom lip. She cannot even bring herself to smile.

“You’re as brainless as your damned traitor brother,” he says in a sweet tone, “It’s good your beauty makes up for it.” He sits at his table, gesturing to the chair across from him. “Sit and break your fast with me.”

“As you command, my Lord,” she says.

“Your _Grace_ ,” he snaps at her.

She gives him a small curtsey. “Forgive me, _your Grace_.”

She can tell her tone does not make him happy, but he brushes it aside as she takes her seat across from him. There is an assortment of foods placed on the table, but she has lost her appetite. She resigns herself to drinking wine.

A look of offense fixes itself on his face as she sips from her goblet. “Will you not eat this delicious food I’d had prepared for you?”

“No, your Grace. I am feeling unwell today,” she answers.

“Why are you sick?”

“I don’t know, my king.”

He slams his silverware on his plate. “Are you pregnant with some peasant’s bastard? Mother said that your maidenhead remains intact.”

“My maidenhead has not been broken. Maester Pycelle checked a few days ago, and the Hound was his witness,” Sansa argued, her tone icy, “Besides, even if I had been raped by all of flea bottom, I have not bled yet.”

Joffrey stands from his chair and approaches Sandor. “Dog, did you see her maidenhead?”

“Aye,” he answers simply.

“Tell me, Hound, how pretty was her cunt?”

A surge of rage fills her as Joffrey’s question echoes through the chambers. “It’s just a cunt. Same as all the rest of them in the world.”

Joffrey lets out a hearty laugh. “You’re being too kind, Dog. I’m sure a traitor’s daughter like her probably has a disgusting, oozing cunt to match.” He moves to stand beside her, lightly stroking her shoulder with his finger. “Why don’t we take a look at it?”

Sansa furrows her brows in confusion, then he roughly pulls her to her feet. He shoves her forward, her torso slamming into the table and sending metal platters clanging to the floor. He tears the back of her dress, from neck to waist.

Her blood begins to boil. She did not want her father to be killed. Yet Joffrey had killed him. She did not want to be betrothed to him any longer. Yet here she was, still going to be married to him. She did not want to be stripped and beaten for the entire court to see. Yet he’d done as he pleased. She had not wanted to be caught up in the madness of the bread riots. Yet he’d still ranted and raved and riled up the onlookers. She did not want to be poked and prodded by Maester Pycelle and his dirty old fingers. Yet Joffrey had still commanded it. She did not want Joffrey to ever lay his hands on her.

She would not let him.

She turns briskly, the back of her hand smacking him with a force she had not known she was capable of possessing. When her hand collides with his mouth, he lurches to the side, releasing his grip on her and holding his mouth. A groan of pain escapes from his mouth. When he turns back to her, his lip has split open, and his teeth are stained red from his blood.

“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell, daughter of Eddard and Catelyn Stark, Robb Stark the King in the North is my brother, and I am the Princess of the North. The blood of the First Men pumps through my veins. Don’t you ever presume to touch me again.”

All is silent as she towers above Joffrey’s cowering figure. He looks up at her with a mixture of disbelief and cowardice as he holds his broken lip. Suddenly, his mouth cracks into a smile, and he begins laughing. She still does not cower or back down as he straightens himself, his eyes becoming teary from mirth.

“Or you’ll do what?” he asks, “Shout at me? Beat me? Kill me?” He lets out another bark of laughter. “What a joke.” He gestures to Ser Meryn. “Meryn, beat her until I tell you to stop.”

Meryn strides to her at a quick pace. She does not flinch when he stands in front of her. Though she grunts loudly when his knee collides with her stomach, she holds back the cry in her throat and shuts her eyes tight to keep the tears at bay. She feels two punches to her stomach, but still she does not shout or collapse. She cannot keep it up for long as Meryn fists a chunk of her hair in his mailed fist and bashes her into the ground. When he unsheathes his blade and slams the flat of it against her bare back in successive quick strokes, she can’t help but scream out in agony. She feels a sticky wetness on her back as Meryn continues to beat her, and Joffrey does not stop him.

“Stop this now!”

She gazes up weakly to see that Sandor has pushed Meryn down and away from her. Sandor unsheathes his sword and holds it off to the side, ready for attack. Joffrey is smiling at him wickedly. “Do you wish to have a go at her, Dog? I’d love to see how you break her.”

“Enough of this,” Sandor growls, “She is to be your wife, your queen, your key to the north, the only way of getting your uncle back. Do you want her _dead_?”

A look of fury takes Joffrey’s features. “Does she look dead to you? I would’ve stopped Trant before he killed her, I don’t need you to make my decisions for me.” He waves his hand in a dismissive manner. “Besides, what does it matter if she’s killed. She’s got traitor’s blood in her.”

“If she dies, Jaime Lannister dies along with her!” Sandor yells, trying to reason with the boy. Pain is coursing through her body, and she can feel something hot and wet dripping from her back. She can barely keep her eyes open.

“I DON’T CARE IF MY UNCLE DIES! HE MEANS NOTHING TO ME!”

“WHAT IS GOING ON IN HERE?!” All eyes turn to the door to see Cersei Lannister bursting in, Lancel Lannister tailing close behind her. When she takes notice of Sansa, Cersei’s expression becomes desperate and horrified. “Oh, gods. Joff, what have you done?!”

“She slapped me! I only did my duty as king to put this traitorous whore in her place!”

“Seven hells, Joffrey, she is a _child_ not even flowered yet, and you make this bumbling fool Trant beat her as though she is the Mountain.” Cersei kneels next to her, checking Sansa’s face. “At least her face is undamaged. If word gets back to her family that you beat her this badly, they’ll kill Jaime.” She grabs Sandor’s arm to capture his attention. “Take her to Maester Pycelle immediately, and don’t stop for any reason. We need her alive.”

Sansa would’ve rather died than be used as a pawn and still at Joffrey’s mercy.

The next few hours are a blur to her as she fades in and out of consciousness. She remembers being held by Sandor, the scent of Dornish sour red enveloping her. She remembers waking up briefly, screaming in pain when Maester Pycelle massages a burning thick paste into her wounds. She remembers Sandor depositing her in her bed, a stern ‘don’t ever do that again’ coming from him as he leaves.

When she becomes fully awake, it is dark outside and she is alone again. The tears come unbidden in the silence of her chambers.

**…**

It has been two months since he’s seen or heard anything from her. After that day, she’d been locked in her room, no longer allowed to roam the castle. She’d never been in the godswood again, never allowed to overlook the city over the battlements, she was allowed nowhere. Sandor found himself thinking of her every waking moment, and it drove him insane. He did not know if she was all right, and it was killing him.

As if that didn’t make his situation dire enough, the war was quickly approaching King’s Landing. The whole castle was in a catastrophic race to prepare the city’s defenses against Stannis’ assault. The smoke drowning out the sky and talk of wildfire did wonders at unsettling his nerves to no end.

No matter where he went or what he did, he could not escape the never-ending anxiety that filled him to his very core.

He is watching over Joff as he breaks his fast in the queen’s chambers when he hears of his little bird again.

“Your betrothed has flowered today, my sweet,” Cersei says as she spreads a sweet jelly over her bread.

“It’s about time,” Joffrey sneers, “I will marry her as soon as the war is over and fill her belly with cubs, whether she wills it or no.”

“It’ll take longer than that for a royal wedding to take place, Joff.”

He scowls at his mother as though she is a parasite sucking the life from his body. “The wedding will happen when I say it will.”

Cersei smiles thinly, “Of course, my sweet.”

“Did she really try to shove her whole mattress in the fireplace?” he asks, a sadistic smile on his face.

“She said that the blood scared her.” Cersei takes a sip of wine before continuing, “You know how silly the little dove is.”

“She’s an idiot,” Joff hisses, “When she slapped me she went on about how she was a princess of Winterfell or something. All that because I wanted to see her cunt.” He gives his mother an incredulous look. “We’re to be husband and wife soon, why should it matter if I want to look at it? Besides, I’m her king. She should feel honored to have me look at her.”

“I’m sure she is deep down,” Cersei says. Sandor tightens his hands to fists at his side, bile climbing up his throat and threatening to spill forth. Cersei looks at him suspiciously. “Joff, why don’t you go shoot hares in the courtyard, I’d like to speak with the Hound alone for a moment.”

Joffrey raises his brow before doing as he’s bid. Sandor remains where he’s standing waiting for Cersei to say whatever she needs to so that he can go drown his worries in wine.

She stands before him, her emerald eyes piercing through his greys. “You seem troubled, Clegane.”

“I’m not troubled by anything,” he says simply, his pride boiling within him.

Cersei smiles in a way that she usually saves for people she’s going to manipulate. Years of guarding her before Joff was born makes Sandor catch it. “Hound, I am not blind or stupid. I see how your brow wrinkles. I was just simply- “she places a delicate hand on his arm, inching a little closer to him and looking up at him through her lashes, “-offering to relieve some of that stress for you.”

His brows knit together as he backs away from her. He feels like he might’ve misheard her. “What are you on about?”

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” she reasons, “I’ve been terribly lonely since my beloved King Robert’s death, and even before he died he only took his pleasures without any thought as to what I wanted.” She begins to toy with the ties at her sleeve. “What’s so wrong about two people satisfying each other’s needs with no strings attached?”

He shakes his head. “It’s not right.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Cersei laughs, “Besides, I am older than you so you do not need to worry about taking advantage of me. I know what I want.”

He backs even farther away from her, looking at her as though she’s lost her mind. “Hells, woman, I don’t _want_ you.”

She chuckles as though he is joking and reaches for him again. This time he grabs her wrist in a tight hold, glaring down at her for emphasis. Her expression takes on disbelief, as though he has grown two heads. Then she starts giggling, her giggles eventually turning into hysterical laughter, and she jerks her hand out of his grasp.

“What’s so funny, woman?”

“This is simply too much,” she sniggers, picking her goblet of wine off the table and taking a long swig. He wishes he could have some wine right about now. “The little dove truly has you ensnared, doesn’t she?”

“What are you talking about?” he growls.

“I’ve seen the way you look at Sansa, how you treat her. Don’t think me daft, I’ve seen what both love and lust looks like, and it’s written all over your face even now.” She takes another sip of wine. “I’d thought, _Oh the big fearsome Hound doesn’t love her, he has no feelings, he’s not capable of it,_ yet, when I offered myself to you just now it had become so clear to me.” She laughs again. “It’s hilarious. Surely, you know that she’ll never love you. What am I saying, with a face as ugly as yours, no woman of sane mind would ever care for you.”

“What do you _want_ , woman?”

“I want to be sure your loyalties lie where they’re supposed to,” she spat, “You remember who took you in when you fled from your brother like a craven fool when he butchered your father, mother, and sister like the dogs they were. You remember who fed you, clothed you, armed you when you had nothing to your name.” She steps closer to him, her head reaching just about chest height, but she did not recoil as she glowered up at him. “You are a Lannister _dog_. You’d best remember that.”

Though his blood seethes within his veins, her words do nothing to hurt him. He knows what he is. He was never under any delusions of that fact. “Is that all, your Grace?” he asks, his features taking on their usual brood once again.

She scoffs as a triumphant smile graces her lips. “Yes. Go guard your king like a good dog.”

He leaves her to her drinking while he makes his way to the White Sword Tower. His room doesn’t contain much. Just a large bed, chest, and table with a singular chair. The hearth always remained unlit. King’s Landing was too warm for the flames, anyways.

He pulls a wineskin out from underneath his bed and begins drinking, the anxieties of the day seeming to dissolve. He’s grown such a tolerance for the stuff that he must drink more wine than is healthy, but he doesn’t care. By the time nightfall comes, he is in a drunken stupor. As he sits at his table, lazily bringing the wineskin to his lips, the little bird comes to his mind.

A thought comes unbidden within his alcohol addled mind. She is in his bed, her dress disheveled and her hair pooling about his pillow as though she were the sun. He imagines himself kissing up her calves and suckling on her inner thighs. She cries out, a beautiful song serenading from her throat, when he caresses her velvet folds with his tongue. He’s never tasted a woman in this manner, but he’s sure she’s sweeter than any wine he’s ever had.

He’s hard now, and he undoes his breeches to take himself in hand. He meets his end quickly, his seed coating his hand. Though his cock is satisfied now, it does hardly anything for his nerves. Now that he’s relieved himself of the sexual tension, his mind begins wondering to other dark corners, and he feels guilty.

He starts thinking about everything she’s been through while residing in the Red Keep. She’s been beaten and bruised. Threatened and used as though she were nothing more than a pawn in a game of chess. He remembers how that feels…he _knows_.

 _And I allow it to happen to her,_ he thinks. He remembers Cersei’s words. She thinks he loves Sansa, but he knows that can’t be true. If he truly loved her, he would protect her with every fiber of his being. He would kill anyone whoever touched her without her consent. He would take her home, to Winterfell, and her family.

 _Cersei is right,_ he thinks, _I really am nothing more than a dog._

**…**

“No one would hurt you again, or I’d kill them,” he’d said.

She’s still lying in the bed after he’s left. Her thoughts are all muddled together, a mixture of sorrow and fear. Her lips still tingle from where he kissed her, pressed his cruel mouth against her just like in her dreams, the scruff of his beard scratching against her chin. Her hand had cupped his burnt cheek. “Please, don’t go,” she’d begged him, but he could not stay. He’d deserted his king, and if he stayed he would be executed.

She lifts herself from her bed. The cloak is laying on the floor, torn from his armor and stained with blood. She kneels, taking the cloth in her hands and wrapping it around her body, a mixture of his natural musk and the scent death enveloping her. She finds it strangely comforting.

The sounds of the battle are drowned out as she becomes lost within her own thoughts. She thinks of her father, how he’d always been her protector until he’d died. Her mother, who always brushed her hair. Her brother Robb, and how he’d fought Theon when he’d tried to kiss her. Arya, and how they’d constantly been at odds with each other. The last time she’d seen Bran and Rickon was when she’d left Winterfell, and they were dead now, too. She even thinks of her bastard brother Jon Snow, and how horribly she’d always treated him.

Tears come unbidden from her eyes. She’ll never be held in her father’s strong arms again. She’ll never feel her mother’s fingers in her hair. She’ll never be able to see Robb smile triumphantly when he bests Theon in a fight. She’ll never get a chance to mend her relationship with Arya. She’ll never get to watch Bran climb Winterfell’s walls again. She’ll never get to see the man that Rickon might’ve become. She’ll never get to apologize to Jon Snow and beg his forgiveness.

She _wants_ to… She _wishes_ she could…

 _No,_ she thinks, _I am Sansa Stark. I am a direwolf, and the blood of the first men runs in my veins._ She resolves it right then and there. She will not die in this city; she refuses. She will see her family again. She will do whatever it takes to make it so, and if she dies, she will take comfort in the fact that she will be reunited with her father and Bran and Rickon and all the dead Starks. She will die fighting. She will not give up.

She opens her armoire and withdraws a satchel. She grabs anything of sentimental value and necessity, shoving it in her bag: an extra dress, smallclothes, and the doll her father had gifted her. She kicks her slippers off and shoves her feet into her riding boots. She grabs Sandor’s white cloak and fastens it about her shoulders with a sapphire brooch, pulling the hood over her head.

When she pulls the door open, she hopes that Sandor has not wondered off too far.

When she opens the door, though, he is there with his back towards her. His sword is drawn within his hand and a wineskin in the other.

He turns his head over his shoulder.

“Go back to bed, Little Bird. I won’t let anyone get to you,” he declares.

“You stayed?” she asks, her voice filled with disbelief.

“You begged me to,” he says as though it should have been obvious. He turns fully towards her, his eyes roaming her body. “Why are you wearing my cloak?”

“I want to leave,” she says quickly, stepping out of the room and shutting the door behind her.

“Little Bird…” he starts. He sounds like he’s changed his mind about the whole thing and it angers her.

She’s had enough of being a prisoner. “I am leaving this city today, whether you think it’s safe or not. I refuse to be trapped in a cage any longer.” She steps forward and places her hands softly on his wrists, looking up at him pleadingly. “I know that what I ask of you is so much, but please, help me leave here. I cannot survive out there on my own.”

He looks down at her for a few moments, his expression unreadable. He sheathes his sword and secures the wineskin on his belt before closing his hand around her arm. He leads her along the halls of the holdfast, checking around every corner before proceeding. They pass by a couple of looters on their way to the drawbridge, but they take one look at Sandor and they go about their business.

They do not meet any resistance until they make it to the drawbridge. There are two guards, and their brows furrow when they see Sansa with the fearsome Hound.

“What business do you have, Ser,” one of them trembles.

“I’m no ser,” Sandor growls, his large lumbering form dwarfing the man before him, “Let the drawbridge down.”

“Queen Cersei told us not to let anyone leave Maegor’s Holdfast,” the other guard says, though his voice shakes more so than his companion’s and sweat has begun to form on his brow.

Sandor approaches the other man, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “If you don’t lower that damned bridge, I’ll get _very_ angry.” He lays his hand on the hilt of his sword.

The guards look at each other nervously before one of them moves to the window. “Lower the bridge!” he shouts.

The bridge lowers, and they are gone before anybody changes their mind. It’s easier for them to move through the keep since most of the guards are either fighting or looting. The only guards they encounter pay little mind to them. On the way, Sandor makes a stop in the kitchens, grabbing hard cheeses, bread, and dried meats before continuing on. When they make it to the stables, Sansa sees the rotting heads of the ones who’d tried to escape before them, and she starts to feel a little sick. She pushes it down, steeling herself. They couldn’t afford her to have second thoughts now.

Sandor busies himself with saddling a great black courser while Sansa worries the fabric of Sandor’s white cloak. When he is finished he approaches her.

“Take off your cloak.” She does as she is bid and as soon as it’s off, he takes it and secures it around his shoulders with her brooch. He leads the horse to her and wraps his hands around her waist, lifting her up so she’s in the saddle. He mounts in front of her. “Cover yourself with the cloak. Don’t forget your feet.” She pulls the cloak around herself, her heart beating wildly in her chest. “Don’t make a sound and don’t move.”

The only thing that can be heard as they ride off is the battle, still raging on in the Blackwater Bay. She cannot see anything, and this makes her nerves even more restless. She does not move or say anything, though, fidgeting the fabric of her dress.

“Halt!” she hears a man shout. She holds her breath. “State your business!”

“I mean to go fight, and defend my king.”

She hears the gates opening, and her heart leaps in her chest. _I am free!_ She rejoices in her mind. For what seems like hours in her nerve wrecked thoughts, the horse walks on. She remains perfectly still as they make their way, the sounds of the battle growing louder, and she is afraid again. She leans her head on Sandor’s back, shutting her eyes tightly and trying her hardest to calm her thoughts. Then they are galloping, and the screaming, the burning, the clash of steel on steel seems further away.

It isn’t until a few hours later that they stop, and King’s Landing is not visible anymore. Sandor dismounts the horse, grabbing her by the waist and helping her down. He removes the cloak from his shoulders and gives it back to her. Sansa situates the cloak around her shoulders and he lifts her onto the courser once again.

Her brow raises in confusion. “Are we not resting?”

“No, Little Bird,” he says, mounting up behind her and wrapping his arms around her so he can hold the reins. Her tummy flutters from the contact. “Once they realize you’re gone, they’ll send the largest search party they can to come find us. We’ll be the most wanted people in all of Westeros. We can’t rest a single moment.”

“Where are we going?” she asks.

“Last I heard, your mother is in Riverrun.”

Sansa’s eyes lit up at the prospect of seeing her mother again. “How long will it take?”

“About two weeks, if we’re lucky.”

Sansa smiles, breathing in the crisp night air. The stars twinkle above them as they ride on, the moon lighting their way. She suddenly feels exhausted, and a yawn pushes past her lips.

Sandor pulls her hood up. “Rest, Little Bird. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us.”

When she leans back against him and closes her eyes, she feels him tense for a moment before he relaxes. They travel like this for days continuous. They eat in the saddle, and Sansa sleeps whenever she feels tired. Their pace changes often, from a trot to galloping and every so often they will dismount and walk to stretch their legs and give the horse, Stranger she learns, a well needed rest from having to carry two people. The route they take has no paths, and they are often either shrouded by trees or out on open fields. They do not stop even for a second. Her thighs and backside are sore from the saddle, but she does not complain.

She does not think that Sandor has rested at all during their journey, though. His eyes are hooded and cloudy, dark circles forming underneath them. When he walks, his feet drag along as though he were not truly living. He has begun muttering to himself, and when she asks if they can stop, he says that there are dangers all around them: Lions lurking in the grass, fire in the distance, soldiers hidden within the tree line. However, when she turns to look, there is never anything there.

They finally stop when a river blocks their path. Sandor dismounts first then grabs her waist to help her. They approach, filling their skins and washing their faces of the dirt and grime. Sansa thinks to ask him if she can bathe, but decides against it, not wanting to hold up their voyage.

“Do you know how to swim?” he asks suddenly.

Her brows knit together in confusion. “No. Why?”

He points upstream. “To the north of us is God’s Eye. That’s also where Harrenhal is. Last I heard, Harranhal was in Lannister hands, so we can’t go around.” He points the other way. “The only bridge I know of is located on the Goldroad, but the Lannisters likely have search parties patrolling up and down the road looking for us. Besides that, bridges are too risky for us to take right now.”

“How do we get across then?” she queries.

Stranger drinks from the water, his limbs shivering with exhaustion. “I’ll have to carry you while we wade across.”

Her stomach twists with nervousness. Though the water is calm, Sandor looks on the brink of passing out. She does not know if he’d be able to carry her across. “Maybe it would be better to find another way.”

“No, we’ll swim,” he snaps with a sense of finality, “It is not that far across. Once we’re on the other side, we’ll be in the Riverlands. The search parties won’t follow us there.”

He approaches her and lifts her from her legs over his shoulder, much like he did during the bread riots. She lets out a gasp when he falters slightly, but he does not drop her. He holds Stranger’s reins in his other hand and begins pushing his way across. Once he is chest deep, the water soaks through her skirts and cloak and leaks into her boots. Then it is so deep that he has to swim, and she can see that he’s struggling with keeping his head above the water, having to carry her and lead Stranger. Stranger’s entire torso is submerged in the water, and his head is just barely bobbing above the surface to breathe. Sansa’s heart aches for the creature, as he has not slept at all either. She prays that the food in the saddlebags has not been ruined from the water.

When they finally emerge on the other side, her skirts cling to her legs and the bloodied white cloak is heavy on her shoulders. Her boots are filled with water, and they squelch uncomfortably against her feet. Sandor sets her down and leans his back against a tree, shutting his eyes for a moment. They don’t rest for long, and Sandor is lifting her back up in the saddle a few moments later, mounting up behind her. They set off once again at a sluggish trot.

The sun is now beginning to set, painting the sky in deep purples and burnt oranges. The area around them is barren save for a few patches of trees. As Sansa looks around she feels completely at peace, content atop Stranger, watching the sunset. She is finally free from the grasp of the Lannisters, her horrible memories of King’s Landing far behind her. She wonders if her mother and Robb look any different than how she remembers them, and her tummy is aflutter with the anticipation of seeing them again after so long apart.

She feels Sandor start to sag against her then, and before she knows it, he’s falling off the side of the saddle. His body collides with the ground with a loud thud and a clangor of metal, his foot still stuck in one of the stirrups. Stranger whinnies in fright and kicks his front feet off the ground, sending a jolt of fear through Sansa when she is thrown off. Her wrist pops when she lands, and she lets out a cry of pain, tears blurring her vision. She does not dwell on the pain long, scrambling to her feet so that she can calm Stranger before he tramples Sandor.

Stranger is still nickering and jumping back and forth on his feet when she approaches him. She grabs the reins, but Stranger moves to bite her hand. She quickly pulls away before he makes contact. She holds her hands out in front of her, her wrist seemingly burning from the inside out. “Easy, easy,” she says, though she has no idea how to calm a horse. Stranger pays her little to no mind. It seems as though he is trying to nudge Sandor with his snout, but he cannot reach from where Sandor is still stuck in the stirrup.

Sansa falls to her knees next to Sandor, her hands going to his shoulders, trying to shake him awake. Her wrist is throbbing from the use but she does not care. “Sandor, get up!” she shouts, panic consuming her thoughts, “You need to tell me what to do!” However, he is completely unconscious, her cries doing nothing to rouse him. She pulls his foot out of the stirrup, and he is free from Stranger. The horse turns itself around and begins nudging against Sandor’s side to try and help rouse him, whickering anxiously, but it is to no avail.

Sansa looks around, desperately trying to find something of use. She spies an outcrop of trees just a few feet from them. It would be a good place to be so they can have some shelter. She positions herself at his head and wraps her arms underneath his and around his chest, pulling with every ounce of strength she has in her. He is so heavy and her wrist is stinging with pain, but she does not stop. Her heart is beating wildly within her chest, and her vision is becoming woozy.

She’s finally able to lay him against one of the trees, her whole body shaking from the exertion. Stranger has followed her to the trees, and he is still trying to wake Sandor, nipping at his gauntlets, and shaking his hand. She reaches and takes his reins in her hand, and though he is still apprehensive, he does not move to harm her. She caresses underneath his chin, her forehead resting against his snout. She shushes him gently, and he quiets and calms. She stands and secures his reins on a low hanging branch. Stranger grazes while she tends to Sandor.

When she presses her hand to his forehead, he is warm but not feverish, and his breathing she notes is soft and relaxed. His features do not look troubled either, and his eyes are tranquil beneath his lids. _He’s sleeping,_ she realizes, relief filling her as she sits back. She really should try to rouse him, but he looks so peaceful and he has not rested at all during their long journey. She removes her cloak and lays it on top of him, removing her satchel in the process. She pulls out the extra dress she packed and changes. It is not one of her prettier dresses like the ones she wore in King’s Landing, but it still makes her feel a little refreshed to have changed.

She resolves to stand guard over him while he rests. She carefully unsheathes his sword from the scabbard. The steel is so heavy that she has to use both hands to wield it, and her wrist is throbbing from having to carry its weight. She sits on a small boulder just outside the tree line, planting the point of the sword in the ground. Her fists tighten around the pommel as exhaustion overtakes her.

She awakes to the sound of stone on steel, and she jerks the sword out of the ground. She stands and swings behind her. She stumbles from the weight of the weapon and whimpers when her wrist stings, a cloak falling from her shoulders. Sandor is awake, and he’s made a small fire in their little shelter. The moon shines high above them.

He stares at her blankly. “You’re holding it wrong,” he says.

Her arms are bent with the pommel pointing towards her chest. The blade is sagging downwards, her strength not great enough to keep it steady. She blushes, pointing the blade back to the ground. “You should be resting.”

“I’ve rested enough.” He adds a few twigs to the fire.

“You fell from Stranger,” she informs him, “I had to drag you here. I couldn’t wake you.”

“How did you manage that?” he asks. She shrugs, and his eyes widen when his attention is drawn to her hands. “What happened to your wrist?”

She looks, and her wrist is just barely peeking out from beneath the sleeve of her dress. It is swollen and bruising. “Stranger bucked me off. He was startled when you fell.”

He stands and takes his sword from her grasp, sheathing it back in its scabbard before laying it to the side. He gently pulls her over towards the fire and motions for her to sit. She does as she’s bid while he rummages around in the saddlebags. He removes a bundle of bandages and kneels in front of her.

He lightly massages her sensitive flesh and she winces from the pain. “Is it broken?”

He shakes his head. “Just sprained. A couple days and it’ll be fine.”

They are silent as he wraps her wrist. Her stomach seems to be filled with butterflies with him so close to her. She remembers the night the Blackwater burned, when he’d kissed her. Her face flushes at the memory. As he finishes wrapping her wrist, she lays a hand against his burnt cheek. He is completely still and tense. When she leans forward to kiss him, he grabs her roughly by the shoulders, holding her back.

“What are you doing?” he asks, his eyes wide in confusion.

“Well, I- uh- I- “she stutters. She shakes her head to clear it. She’s done with being scared of saying how she feels and what she wants. “I want to kiss you.”

He barks out a laugh. “Have you gone mad?”

Her eyebrows come together in misunderstanding. “What do you mean? _You_ kissed _me_ first.”

He laughs more, going back to lean against the tree she’d brought him to before. “You really have gone mad. I never kissed you, Little Bird.”

“Yes, you did.” She kneels in front of him on her knees. She is mere inches away from him. “The night of the battle. I gave you a song, and you gave me a kiss.”

“I would remember it.”

“You were drunk,” she says, frustrated, “You probably don’t remember anything from that night.”

“Quit your chirping,” he growls, his eyes filling with anger, “I remember the green flames. I remember holding the knife to your throat. I remember you singing your pretty little hymn. I remember your hand on my face. I did not kiss you, though I _wanted_ to do more than that to you.”

Sansa’s brow furrows. _Did I just imagine it?_ She wonders. She shook her head, steeling her expression. “All the same, I still want to kiss you.”

“Listen, girl,” he snarls, “I am not some knight from one of your songs.”

“And I am not a girl,” she spat, “I’m a woman flowered, and I know what I want.” She scoots closer to him and holds his face in her hands. His face seems to soften. “If you don’t want me, then tell me and I’ll stop. I won’t ever try to kiss you again.”

He is silent as they stare at each other. The air around them is tense with many different things, and she forgets the rest of the world exists for a moment. She leans forward and her lips barely brush against his own.

He holds her at the waist, and she tenses. Sensing her discomfort, he does as well. She is suddenly bombarded by memories: of the bread riots, of Maester Pycelle and his fingers, of Joffrey ripping her dress.

A mixture of hurt and confusion fixes itself in his features. “Having second thoughts?”

His words break her out of her thoughts. “No, it’s just…” She does not know what exactly to say. She’s had too many people take what they wanted from her. She trusts Sandor, with every fiber of her being, but she cannot shake the fear of him taking things from her that she does not want to give yet. She grabs his hands and takes them off her waist. “Please, let me be in control. Don’t touch me.”

A look of understanding crosses his features and he nods. The air is thick around them with nervousness and anticipation, and her breathing is coming a little harsher. She’s gripping her skirts tightly. She closes her eyes and leans forward quickly, her lips pressing against his in a chaste, lingering kiss. When she separates from him, just an inch from his mouth, she can feel her face tingling, and her heart is quivering within her chest.

When she opens her eyes, she sees that he’s looking at her as though she’s not real, as though she were a dream. Her hands come up of their own accord and hold his face, her fingers curling against the back of his head. She angles her head and kisses him again. She separates for only a moment before kissing him once more, this time more heated.

As she moves to straddle him over his lap, she bites and pulls on his lip, a groan rumbling from the back of his throat. She deepens the kiss, his tongue battling hers for dominance, but she is the victor. She wraps one arm around his neck, the other moving so she can entangle her fingers in his hair. She is pressed flush against him now, her breasts pressing against his armor.

She separates from him, kissing his forehead and cheeks before tracing his jawline with kisses. His beard tickles her mouth causing her to smile. A wetness has formed between her thighs, and when she suckles on his neck, her hips roll against him. A moan escapes from her.

“Little Bird, stop…” he says.

She pulls herself away from him, a worried look fixed on her features. “Did I hurt you?”

A gravelly laugh rumbles from within him. “Of course not. It’s late, though. And you need to get some rest.”

She leaves his lap, giving him an irritated look. “I’d sooner say that of you. You’re the one who fell off your horse.”

“Now, that we’re in the Riverlands, we can take more breaks,” he reasons. He reaches towards her face, but stops himself. He stands. “Don’t worry about me, Little Bird. Get your rest.”

She stares at him suspiciously as he fixes his sword belt on. She lays down by the fire, covering herself with his bloody white cloak. She is asleep within seconds.


	2. The Lost Wolf

Darkness consumes her as she steps forward. Sansa cannot see a thing, but she can hear the serene sounds of hymns being sung just ahead of her. Her shoes tap against the marble floors, and she feels that her arm is being held in a vice like grip. No matter how hard she fights with herself, she cannot even struggle against whatever holds her.

Two lanterns seem to illuminate by themselves on either side of her with her next step, and she is finally able to see. The darkness clings to the surrounding light, not allowing her to see what lies ahead or if there are any walls or ceilings. As she walks, more lanterns light themselves.

When she looks down to examine herself, she is wearing a beautiful ivory gown made of Myrish lace. The lace is sewn in intricate designs of leaves and vines, and the grey direwolf of house Stark is stitched on her left breast, the black stag of house Baratheon stitched onto her right. A heavy white cloak is draped over her bare shoulders, and it feels like her hair is done up in a southern style, all piled up and pinned to the top of her head.

Dread fills her as she slowly turns her head to see who or what is clutching her arm. It makes her dizzy and swells in her throat and makes her stomach turn. She is met with the headless body of her father, holding his head, lifeless, in his other hand. She wants to scream and pull away, can feel it straining within her, but she can’t bring forth the sound or action.

They stop suddenly after reaching the last pair of lamps. The darkness parts before them, revealing a sept with seven broad aisles, the ceiling domed into nothingness. Alters depicting the Seven circle around her, their faces which once gave her comfort looking down on her with dead, dull eyes.

As her father leads her forward, towards the alters of the Mother and the Father, she realizes that they are not alone. On their right, she sees a sea of blonde hair and green eyes. Cersei is there, her mouth fixed in her usual condescending smile. Ser Jaime is there as well, his white cloak of the kingsguard stained blood red. Tyrion is standing away from them, though when she sees him she does not feel as frightened. A look of pity is upon his face. Myrcella and Tommen are there too. They look at her with excited, innocent smiles, it unnerves her even more.

When she looks to her left, she feels bile creeping up her throat and tears sting her eyes. Brooding pale grey eyes stare back at her, completely dead. Her mother has multiple stab wounds in her stomach, her blood dripping down and drenching her skirts. Robb is a mess, bolts sticking out of him, completely soaked in blood and mud; his head has been chopped off, and he is holding it on a silver platter in front of himself. Arya looks starved, and her clothes are ripped so much that she’s barely able to cover herself, the crotch of her trousers stained with blood. Sansa could barely recognize Bran and Rickon. They were erupted in flames, their flesh melting from the heat. Even Jon Snow was there, looking like a walking corpse, his eyes glowing an unnatural shade of blue.

When they make it to the end of the aisle, the sight of Joffrey terrifies her so much that the tears that’d been stuck in her eyes finally release. He is covered head to toe in blood. All the direwolves of the Starks lay dead and slaughtered at his feet. The sight of Sandor hung from a noose above them, being held up by the Mother’s hand, fills her with so much grief that she wants to fall to her knees and beg the gods for forgiveness, but she cannot move to do so. Joffrey is sneering at her as her father leads her to her future husband.

When her father removes her cloak, Joffrey picks it up. Ser Ilyn Payne steps out from the shadows, his cold, pale eyes piercing through her. Joffrey holds the cloak out for him, and Ilyn stabs through it with the greatsword Ice, the cloak shattering before her like glass and cutting into her skin. When Joffrey puts his own cloak over her, she sees the house colors of Lannister flash across her vision before it is draped on her shoulders. The lion sigil comes to life and it begins clawing and biting into her flesh, but she cannot bring herself to cry out in pain. When she looks back into the crowd, the Lannisters transform into lions, pouncing from the pews and devouring her family.

“With this kiss,” Joffrey says, “I pledge my love and take you for my lady and wife.”

He is looking at her expectantly, waiting for her to repeat the words. She can feel them crawling up her throat, threatening to spill forth from her lips, but she does not let them come. She can see that Joffrey is starting to become angry.

“Say it!” he shouts, grasping her shoulders in a bruising grip, “Say it, or I’ll beat you!”

“Then beat me,” she says harshly, “Kill me if you want to, but I will never marry you.”

She gasps when his hands come up to close around her throat. She thinks that she can still feel them when she opens her eyes and is met by daylight filtering in through the trees. She pants, sitting up from underneath the bloody white cloak, and running her hands over her neck franticly. She looks around desperately and notices Stranger still tethered to the tree. When she approaches the horse and tries to pull herself up onto his bare back, he whickers nervously.

A pair of hands grab her by the waist and pull her away. “What are you doing?”

She knows that it’s Sandor, has memorized his touch and his voice, but her panic filled mind causes her to distress. “Please, stop! You’re hurting me! You can’t make me go back!”

Stranger reaches over and nips at his wrist. Sandor shoves the horse away and turns her around so that she is facing him. “Calm yourself, girl. It’s me.”

Seeing his face fills her with relief and without thinking, she jumps up and wraps her arms around his neck in a tight hug. She begins crying uncontrollably, sobs racking her body. After a few moments, she is able to feel that he is tense beneath her. She slowly lowers herself, using her hands to dry her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“Quit your chirping,” he tells her, though his tone is gentle. “Sit down, and I’ll get you something to break your fast.”

Sandor rummages through the saddlebags while Sansa sits down in the grass. The fire is long gone now, with only a few embers in its place. She picks up the bloody cloak and wraps it around herself. Sandor’s scent has long since been absent from the cloak, but it still gives her comfort to wear it or have it about herself. Sandor finds her some bread and cheese to nibble on, and she accepts it gratefully. The bread is stale and the cheese a little soft from having been exposed to water the day before, but she doesn’t care as long as her grumbling stomach is satisfied.

Sandor sits across from her, eating his own bread and cheese. “What’s gotten you so worked up?”

She blushes, embarrassed from her outburst. “I had a nightmare,” she says, not feeling the need to lie to him or keep it to herself.

“It’s just a dream, little bird, nothing more,” he reassures her.

“I know,” she answers. “It’s just…There was so much. My father was walking me down the aisle in a sept, but he was headless. All the Lannisters watched me as if nothing were amiss, but my family was on the other side, all dead.” Sansa’s eyes fill with tears. “Then I saw you hanging from the alter of the Mother while my decapitated father gave me away to Joffrey. Now, I just feel guilty for dragging you into all this. They’ll kill you if they capture us, and it’ll be all my fault.”

“Look at you, wasting your tears on a dog,” he scoffs, “And a nightmare that will never come true.”

“You’re so hateful,” she scolds, the tears falling from her eyes, “Is it really so wrong for me to cry?”

The burnt side of his mouth twitches. “No one will hurt you again. I told you that, remember? I won’t let them, and if they do, I’ll kill them.”

“What if you’re not there?” she questions, her tone frustrated. “I’m not like Arya or Robb or Jon, I can’t protect myself if someone wants to hurt me. Lady’s dead.” She wipes the tears off her cheeks with her thumb. “You were right. I should just die so that I won’t be in the way of those who _can_ protect themselves.”

“You stop that,” he snaps, his eyes darkening. He stands. “Eat your fucking food and stop crying. I’ve got to take a piss.”

As he wonders off, she bites into her bread savagely, glaring at him. A few minutes later, Sandor enters the campsite again, holding a long, pointed stick in one hand and a blunted stick in the other.

“What is that?” she asks.

“It’s a spear,” he answers. “You’re going to use it to protect yourself.”

Sansa furrows her eyebrows. “I don’t know how to use a spear, or any weapon.”

“I’ll teach you.” He gestures for her to get up and follow him. He leads her out into the open field, handing her the pointed stick. It is only a couple inches taller than her, and she’d be able to use it as a walking stick if she so desired. “Did you ever watch your brothers spar?”

“No,” she answers, “I would sit out in the courtyard with my septa and Jeyne, but we mostly did our stitching.” Sansa looks at her spear strangely. “They mostly fought with sword and shield, though.”

“Spears are easier to use, and it’s all I can give you right now,” he explains. “we’ll train every morning before we set out and every night before we go to sleep, eventually you’ll be able to protect yourself with enough practice.”

Sansa felt both endeared that he was going to such lengths to make sure she was safe and guilty for worrying him so much. “You really don’t have to.”

“Gods damn it, girl, make up your mind. Do you want to protect yourself or not?”

“Of course,” she says quickly, before he can change his mind about the whole thing. “I don’t want you to worry about me, that’s all.”

“I’ll always worry about you. Don’t you know that?” When her eyes widen, he lets out a scoff. “Let’s just get this over with. Let me see your stance.” She awkwardly holds the shaft within both her hands, keeping them close together towards the middle and pointing the sharp end at him. He approaches her and pulls the spear out of her grasp. “Hold the spear like this.” His hands are a couple of feet apart towards the bottom of the weapon, his legs spread a little. She takes the spear from him and mirrors his stance.

He unsheathes his sword and places the edge at her neck. “Remember, a man has to be this close to you in order to cut you down. If their swords are shorter or they are using a dagger, they’ll have to be closer.” He sheathes his sword and walks to her front where her spear is pointed. He is a couple paces back from being able to reach her with his sword. “Always keep your enemies at a distance. They can’t hurt you if they can’t reach you.” He grabs the front of her weapon and aims it at different parts of his body. “Whenever you strike, aim for exposed areas of their body and any of their joints, where armor can’t cover.”

He lifts his blunted stick, and they begin sparring. Sandor has always made fighting look so simple. It’s not. She must look so silly, a proper lady swinging a pointed stick about, but he doesn’t laugh or tease her. He just instructs her when she fails, and praises her when she succeeds. He teaches her how to move with her weapon, and what to look for when fighting an opponent. She can tell that he is holding back, and it almost upset her. _My enemies won’t hold back, so why should he,_ she thinks to herself. However, when he hits her it still hurts, and he hits her often. By the end of the day she is covered in bruises, and her muscles ache every time she moves. That night she is so exhausted that she does not dream. By the end of the fourth day, she’s starting to get better at dodging and countering Sandor’s attacks, though, she is nowhere near being good enough to hold her own in a fight. Her movements have become more lithe and supple. She feels powerful, and when Joffrey creeps into her thoughts, she wonders if she’d be able to cause some real damage against him now.

They had just finished walking up a steep hill when they decide to make camp for the night at the top. Sansa feels the hair on the back of her neck stand up. She feels eyes on her, but when she glances around, there is no one there. Many chopped tree stumps surround the top of the hill, and she thinks that they were weirwood trees. There are some grown trees outside the circle, nasty gnarled looking things that did nothing to settle her unease.

“Perhaps we should rest somewhere else,” Sansa says.

“Are you mad, girl?” Sandor barks, “The sun is almost set, and we’ll be safe as can be up here. We’ll be able to see anyone approach before they’re upon us.”

She remembers the stories Old Nan used to tell her and her siblings. How the children of the forest haunted the places where weirwood trees were cut. “This place is cursed.”

Sandor squints around at the trees. “I see no ghosts here, no monsters to steal you away.”

“Don’t you feel it?” She shivers. She points to the stumps before continuing, “Those used to be weirwood trees. The old gods are watching us right now, and the children of the forest lurk in the shadows waiting for us to sleep so they can slit our throats and feast on our flesh.”

Sandor lets out a barking laugh. “You’re letting your imagination run wild. There are no children here, little bird, or old gods. They died when those trees were felled. The gods don’t give a shite about any of us; why would they be watching a dog and a lady camp for the night?”

He starts a fire then goes rummaging through the saddlebags to find something for them to eat. There isn’t much food left for them, but Sandor assures her that they’re getting closer to Riverrun. “You’re laughing now, but you won’t be laughing when a green child bites into your leg like you’re a chicken.”

“Come sit by the fire, and calm yourself,” he says, biting into a bit of cheese. “If any children come, you can poke them with your spear. You’ve gotten good enough that you should be able to manage that.”

Sansa worries a piece of bread between her fingers before popping it into her mouth. “I wouldn’t be able to hold my own against anything, let alone a child.”

“You barely started training. It takes time to build skill.” He takes another bite of cheese. “We’ll spar after you finish your meal. We need to start before it becomes night.”

After she finishes eating, they begin sparring. Halfway through their session Sansa is sweating and hot, but she doesn’t care. Sandor has seen her look worse than she does at the moment. She is so focused on her training that her disquiet has been completely forgotten. When Sandor brings her a skin of water after a particularly trying match, she swigs the water hastily, gulping down greedily.

Then she hears it, a voice that sends chills down her spine and blanches her skin. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Immediately Sandor withdraws his sword from its scabbard, looking around for the owner of the voice. Sansa drops the skin and gets in her stance. An old dwarf woman, even shorter than Tyrion Lannister, shuffles into the clearing. She is leaning on a twisted black cane, her white hair almost touching the ground.

Her tired red eyes regard Sansa with trepidation. “How strange. One night I dreamed of the maid with purple snakes in her hair, then the next I dreamt that she’d been spirited away by the Stranger.”

Sansa lowers her spear at the sight of the pale old woman, but Sandor is not so easily trusting. “Who are you, hag? What do you want with us?”

“You’re on _my_ hill, beast, but I mean you no harm,” the woman cackles, “As for who I am, the common people call me the ghost of High Heart.”

“Are you a ghost?” Sansa asks, “Truly?”

“Want me to find out for you, little bird?” Sandor growls, brandishing his sword.

The ghost laughs at that. “You call her a little bird, but she is a wolf. I saw her change when the lion bit her.”

“Speak sense woman, or I’ll make you a foot shorter.”

Sansa lays a gentle hand on his sword arm. “Please, Sandor, she will not hurt us.” He lowers his weapon, but he does not sheath it. Sansa turns to the woman, kneeling in front of her in the grass so she doesn’t have to look down. “Why did you not make yourself known? I have felt your presence since we made camp.”

“That man is the Stranger embodied,” the woman says, pointing up at Sandor. “I dreamt that he was a great cloaked giant, and when he lowered his hood,” she trembles, “ _Those eyes_.”

Sansa glances up to Sandor, searching for any hurt that might’ve blossomed from the ghost’s statement, but he does not seem affected. “What do you mean you dreamt it?” Sansa asks.

“I dream many things. For the right price, I can make these dreams known to you.”

“She is a witch, little bird, don’t fall for any of her tricks,” Sandor rumbles, pulling Sansa up by her arm.

“It is not an outrageous price that I seek. Simply a song,” the woman says, “I do not wish to harm or curse you.”

Sansa swallows thickly, looking to Sandor for support. “It’s merely a song she asks for, Sandor.”

“’Tis merely a song she asks until she sucks the soul from your throat.”

“Now who’s letting their imagination run wild?” Sansa teases, smirking at him.

He glares at her, sheathing his sword. Sandor pushes past the two women and stomps back to the fire, grumbling all the while, “To the seventh hell with you then. I’ll take no part in this.”

Sansa kneels once again so that she is at eye level with the ghost. “Please, don’t mind him. He is not so horrible as he likes to appear.”

“He reeks of the Stranger, and suffering follows him wherever he goes,” the ghost spat, looking at Sandor with white eyes. She turns back to Sansa. She gently combs her fingers through Sansa’s hair. “I’ve seen your pretty red hair in my dreams, wolf princess, heard your lovely howl echo through my mind.”

“What do you dream of?” Sansa asks.

“I dreamt that the Stranger fought a chained giant, their swords fighting for the honor of the Maiden, though she’d already chosen her champion. I dreamt that a crying mare with kissed a wolf queen. I dreamt of you, pretty maid, walking amongst ghosts with grey eyes and long faces. I dreamt of a giant wolf lurking through the woods, and a fishwoman, crying red tears. She embraced the wolf the way a mother would a child. I dreamt of that wolf again, but this time she was savagely ripping into a flayed man.”

“What does any of this mean?”

The woman shudders. “You’ll have to find out for yourself. I just have the dreams. Please, I am weary; can I have my song now?”

“Of course,” Sansa answers, following the old woman back to the fire. The ghost lays against a trunk, as far away from Sandor as she can get. “Which song would you like to hear?”

“Do you know my Jenny’s song?” the woman asks eagerly. “Jenny of Oldstones. She was my dearest friend.”

Sansa thinks that she knows which song the ghost speaks of. It has been so long that she does not remember most of the songs she’d learned back at Winterfell. Life in King’s Landing had been so torturous that she found no comfort in songs anymore. Still, the words eventually come to her and she sings:

_High in the halls of the kings who are gone,_

_Jenny would dance with her ghosts…_

The soft, sad melody twirls through the cold night air. Sansa pulls the bloody white cloak tighter around herself to combat the chill shivering up her spine. The ghost is singing along with her and after a while begins to cry. Sansa also feels a biting against her own cheeks when she starts crying as well. She thinks of her mother, of Arya, of her father, of Jon Snow, all her family and the song seems all the sadder to her because of it. She feels alone and abandoned, wondering why Robb had never come for her. By the time the song is through, she is a trembling mess. Her eyes are shut tight, and she covers her mouth to try and muffle her sobs, though it is of no use.

She lies awake until late into the night, looking up at the stars above her. She thinks on the ghost’s dreams, of how she’d seen Sansa mingling with the dead. She remembers her father’s warm embrace, and begins to think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to dance with her ghosts, just like Jenny of Oldstones.

**…**

Sandor doesn’t know what to think of any of this. Sitting there and watching her cry next to the fire does it in for him in a way that he never thought would be possible. He wants to say something to her, to bring her comfort in some way. She doesn’t want him touching her, though. She’d said so herself that night when she’d kissed him. _Why would she want your filthy hands on her, you monster?_ he thinks to himself.

So, he directs his aggression to somebody that isn’t Sansa. “You old hag. If you put some curse on her, I’ll kill you. I’ll make it a slow death too.”

“Save your breath, Stranger,” the ghost spat, “I didn’t put any curse on the wolf princess.”

“Liar,” he says, though he cannot sense the lie in her words, “She was doing just fine ‘til you coaxed the song from her throat. You probably stole what little happiness she has left, didn’t you?”

She cackles. “Her happiness was taken long before she met me. I saw it in my dreams. I have no use for others’ happiness, anyhow.”

“Bugger you and your dreams,” Sandor barks, “You dream of nonsense, like the little bird.”

“My dreams come true,” the old woman argues, “I dreamt a long time ago of a savage golem made of stone submerging a pup’s face in a volcano. You know what I’m speaking of don’t you, Stranger?”

Sandor’s face drains of color as the memory floods his senses. He can still remember the searing pain across his face when Gregor held it down to the brazier. _How does she know about this?_ The only person he’d ever told was Sansa, and his father was the only other person to know what really happened, but he’s been dead for years now. He shakes his head and turns away from the fire. “You don’t know what you speak of.”

“You hateful man. You and your heart full of wretchedness,” the ghost curses, “You will never kill your brother, but I can tell you how he will die.”

“The Others take you, hag, I don’t want to hear any more of your dreams.”

Sandor lays down in the grass and closes his eyes.

When they wake the next morning, the old woman is gone and there is no sign that she’d even been with them at all. Sandor decides to skip their morning training, wanting to get as far away from this place as they can. They eat in the saddle, and Sandor urges Stranger onward in a fast pace. They are so close to Riverrun that his little bird is fidgeting in the saddle in anticipation.

“Will you stay when we get to Riverrun?” Sansa asks, an expectancy in her gaze.

“If they’ll let me,” he answers, “I plan to pledge myself in your brother’s service.”

“You could have anything you ask for returning me.” She is looking at her hands clasped in her lap.

 _Even if I ask for you?_ He wonders. “Might be I’ll ask to be your sworn shield.”

“Would you truly?” She looks up at him with bewildered blue eyes. “You’d have to swear it in front of a heart tree. That’s the northern way.”

“Whatever oaths you’ll have me say, I’ll say. I’ll even kneel.”

She giggles, a pretty, little sound. “I’d like to see you kneel.”

His blood quickens at her statement, and he feels a twitching in his cock, but he does not acknowledge her statement.

The next afternoon, Riverrun is within sight. Sansa is looking at the castle longingly, and her legs bounce anxiously in the saddle. He decides to dismount and walk the rest of the way to the keep. When they reach the river, the high walls make Sandor almost feel small.

A guard stands on top of the wall, looking down on them. “State your business!”

“I want an audience with Lord Hoster Tully,” Sandor replies. “My travelling companion wishes to speak with him.”

“Wait, are- are you the Hound?” the guard stutters as he squints down at them. “Who is it you travel with?”

“I’ll have a hearing with the lord of Riverrun first,” Sandor counters.

“Lord Edmure Tully is lord of the castle.”

Sandor moves to speak, but is interrupted when Sansa pushes off Stranger, the shaft of her spear touching the ground beside her. She steps in front of him and shouts, “I am Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell. My companion escaped with me from King’s Landing the night of the Blackwater battle.” Her voice is trembling, but still she continues, “I would like to speak with my uncle, Lord Edmure Tully.”

The guard looks down at them disbelieving before shouting back, “Just a moment.”

They are left alone, and he notices Sansa’s hands fidgeting. “What if it’s a trap?” she asks suddenly.

“I don’t think it is, little bird,” he says, “I won’t let any harm come to you.”

“You can’t promise that,” she retorts, “What if they are working with the Lannisters?”

“The guard had the fish crest on his armor, and House Tully would never betray their own family. Your imagination is getting ahead of itself again.”

“I know it is, I’m sorry.”

“Quit your- “

His reply is drowned out by the drawbridge lowering. A stocky man with auburn hair and Tully blue eyes is waiting on the other side with a group of soldiers behind him. A fierce beard grows along his jaw, and he wears a cloak of blue-and-red; his surcoat bears the crest of House Tully. Sansa moves to walk across, and Sandor follows, leading Stranger by his reins.

Edmure is looking at Sansa as though she were a trick of his mind, his mouth hanging agape. He shakes his head before speaking, “Your Grace, forgive me,” Sansa seems taken aback by the form of address, judging by her sudden inhale, “You just…look so much like your mother.” He reaches forward and clasps his hands around her shoulders. “It is good to see you safe, and returned to us.” He is smiling down at her until he turns to Sandor, then his smile has disappeared. “Take the Hound to the dungeons.”

The soldiers move to take him, but Sansa steps in front of them. “You will not,” she commands, “What crimes would you seize him for?”

Edmure wears a look of surprise. “He is Joffrey’s sworn shield, princess. A member of his kingsguard.”

“Not anymore,” she ripostes, “He protected me during my time as a hostage in the Red Keep, and together we escaped from King’s Landing. He wishes to pledge himself to House Stark.”

“His brother raped and pillaged my lands.”

“Are we punishing him for the actions of his brother?” she asks, “He has not committed any crime against your people nor has he ever fought in any battles against you.” She lays a hand on Edmure’s forearm. “Please, uncle, let us tell you our tale. Sandor Clegane is not our enemy.”

He regards her hesitantly before responding, “Very well.” He motions for them to follow him. When they are in the courtyard he waves a maid over. “My niece and her companion require food and a bath. See that they are both given rooms.”

The maid curtseys. “Of course, m’lord.” Then she is walking off towards the keep.

Emdure turns back to them. “I will send for you shortly. For now, rest and eat.”

He leaves them in the courtyard and the soldiers disperse to go about their business. They allow Sandor to see to Stranger in the stables and Sansa joins him. The maid finds them there and leads them through the heavy redwood doors of the castle. Sansa is taken to her room first, and Sandor’s is just a few doors down from hers.

The room he’s presented with is the nicest room he’s ever had. There is a large four-poster bed against the northern wall, a tapestry with the Tully crest hanging behind the headboard. An armoire stands beside the bed, leaping fishes etched into the wooden surface of the doors. A window is on the western wall, overlooking the Tumblestone and into the forest beyond, curtains of mud-and-water surrounding the frame. A round table is positioned near the fireplace on the southern wall, two chairs seated on either side of it; he moves them immediately.

Servants bring him a bath, a change of clothes, and a meal of bass and potatoes. After almost two weeks of nothing but dried meats, bread, and cheese, the hot meal in his belly is like a gift from the gods. When he’s finished eating he bathes. The hot water does wonders at soothing the ache of travel from his body, and he is thankful for a chance to properly clean the sweat and blood off his skin from the battle.

For clothes, they brought him a blue doublet with brown sleeves and silver clasps up the front and a pair of breeches. After a while, a guard comes to escort him and Sansa. When he sees her, he feels an overwhelming need to embrace her and nip the tops of her breasts. She’s bathed and smells of jasmine, her hair loosely plaited down her back. The blue-grey velvet and taffeta dress she wears hugs her figure, and the square neckline exposes the flesh of her collarbone. She blushes when she notices his staring, and he has to imagine all the gruesome things he’s done to calm his blood.

They ascend the spiral staircase up to the lord’s chambers and solar. The guard enters first, announcing their arrival, then they are ushered in. The solar is a large triangular room with a balcony overlooking the Red Fork from the eastern wall. The room stinks of something foul, and Sandor notices an old man sleeping across the room, his sickbed facing the balcony, and he can only guess that it’s Lord Hoster Tully.

There is a long table in the center of the room, and Edmure and Lady Catelyn are seated there. When Catelyn sees her daughter, she stands, a look of disbelief worn on her face and her eyes threaten to spill forth from tears.

“Mother?” his little bird says, her voice trembling.

“Sansa,” Catelyn cries. The tears fall from her eyes and she steps around the table to embrace Sansa within a tight hold. “My sweet, beautiful girl.”

“Mother, I’m so sorry,” Sansa sobs, her arms wrapping around Catelyn’s back and nuzzling her face into her mother’s shoulder. The scene is intimate, and he feels like a trespasser in this room, watching them. He turns away from them and shuffles awkwardly on his feet.

“You’ve done nothing to be sorry for, my sweet,” Catelyn reassures.

“No, Mother, it was all my fault,” Sansa says through her weeping, “I begged Joffrey to spare Father. He said that Father would be fine if he plead guilty to treason. I knew he was innocent, but I condemned him. I betrayed my own father. I should’ve fought, I should’ve told the truth, I should’ve defended him, but I was so scared and alone and I didn’t know what to do and I’m so sorry.”

Catelyn shushed the girl in the loving manner that mothers were supposed to. “You’ve done nothing to forgive, Sansa. There, there, my kind girl. My gorgeous girl. I love you so much.” For a few moments, the only thing that could be heard was the sound of Sansa’s sobs, until Catelyn speaks again, “Where is Arya?”

Sandor turns back ready to explain, but the little bird beats him to the punch, “Arya was never there. I don’t know where she is, but she must’ve escaped somehow.”

Catelyn at first looks relieved, then sad, then angry. “Cersei, that wicked snake. I should’ve drove Brienne’s sword through the Kingslayer’s chest instead of letting him go.” She looks at Sandor, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. “Why are you here, Hound?”

“Please, Mother,” Sansa says, clasping her mother’s hands within her own, “he means us no harm. He protected and saved me. He helped me escape during the battle of the Blackwater, and he wants nothing more than to fight for Robb.”

Catelyn shakes her head. “He has been a loyal Lannister dog since he was a boy. The only thing he desires is to present our heads to his king.”

“I know it is difficult for you to believe, but please, let me tell you of all he’s done for me. He is the reason I am still alive and brought back to you.”

Catelyn settles her mistrustful gaze on him before nodding her consent. “Very well. I’ll hear your story, Sansa, but I want to hear it from his mouth. I want him to look me in the eyes.”

Sansa gives him an apologetic look before going with her mother to the table. Sandor is suddenly nervous as he sits across from them. He knows his little bird like he knows the feel of his blade, but he does not know Catelyn or Edmure quite so well.

He does not care what they think of him or what punishment they’ll prepare for him, he decides. He has accomplished what he wanted. He brought his little bird back to her family, and even if he never sees her again, he’ll accept whatever fate is given to him gladly if it means that she’ll be safe and happy. So, he tells them everything of what happened to her in King’s Landing: when Joff forced her to look at the heads of her father and septa on spikes, of when Joffrey had her beaten in the throne room, the bread riots, that horrible day when Trant had beat her back with the flat of his blade. He doesn’t leave out a single detail. When he finishes, Edmure’s mouth is set in a flat line, and Catelyn looks furious while tears are stuck at her waterline. Sansa has her head bowed, her face blank and unreadable, like in King’s Landing.

“Is this true, Sansa?” Catelyn asks.

“It’s true,” Sansa answers, her stare remaining on her lap.

Catelyn glares at him. “How dare you? You claim to have saved and protected her, but you stood by and let them hurt her.”

Sansa looks at her mother with wide eyes. “Mother- “

“I would’ve killed them. Every last one of them. I would’ve done everything I could to keep them from her.”

Edmure lays a hand on her shoulder. “Cat- “

“No.” She shrugs away from his touch. “How _dare_ you? You want to fight for my son, but you didn’t even fight for my daughter.”

“Mother, please- “

“Aye,” Sandor admits, “I let them beat her. I should’ve done more for her. I should’ve taken her from King’s Landing sooner. I should’ve killed Ilyn Payne before he’d cut down your husband. I should’ve strangled that blonde bastard with my bare hands the second he commanded Blount and Trant to strip and beat her. I should’ve. I _wanted_ to…but I _didn’t_.” Sansa is silently crying while she looks at him. The guilt he feels while he’s confessing is so great, he finds it hard to look her mother in the eye, this person who loves Sansa more than anyone could ever hope to match. “I could lie and say that it was solely to protect her that I didn’t do anything. If I’m gone who would be there to look out for her, but I was selfish and a coward as much as the lords and ladies in that court that watched Joffrey’s torment. I knew that if I’d ever done anything to oppose him, I’d be punished. So, I never did until the night the Blackwater burned.

“I wanted to bring her back to you, and I did. She’s safe now, and that’s all that matters to me. Do with me what you will, and I’ll accept it without protest, but if you’ll allow me, I’ll do right by her and your family. I will protect her with everything that I am, and I’ll be a staunch ally to King Robb Stark.”

Everyone was silent. Sansa looks at him with an expression that he can’t understand. Catelyn is still frowning at him, not swayed in the slightest by what he said. Edmure looks torn with what has been presented to them.

“Throw him in the dungeons, Edmure,” Catelyn says.

“Mother!” Sansa exclaims.

“Cat, that is not your decision to make,” Edmure points out, “I am the lord of-”

Catelyn scoffs. “The Hound is our enemy. He is a Lannister dog.”

“No, he’s not! Mother, he saved me,” Sansa explains.

“We will wait for Robb to decide!” Edmure shouts to get their attention. “Clegane, you will be confined to your room until King Robb’s return from the Crags, then we’ll decide what to do with you.”

Though Catelyn protests, “Edmure- “

“That’s my final word on it!” he interrupts.

After that final outburst, Sandor is sent back to his room. A guard is stationed outside, so he doesn’t leave, and his weapons have been confiscated. He is anxious within the confines, not having anything to do but look out the window or sleep. A maid comes to light his fire before it becomes dark then leaves without speaking a word to him. He removes his doublet and boots then closes the curtains before laying down over the furs and sheets of the bed. When nighttime approaches, he finds that he is unable to sleep.

When the moon is high in the sky, he hears a woman’s voice outside his door, “Good evenin’, Dallen.”

“You as well, Marilla,” his guard greets.

“Want to come down to the wine cellars with me?” she asks, a sly hint to her tone, “I’ve been thinkin’ about ya all day, ya know.”

“Not tonight, Rilla,” he says, sounding disappointed. “Lord Edmure has ordered me to guard this prisoner.”

“They’re probably asleep at this late hour. Oh, I’m just burnin’ for ya, Dallen. Would ya like to feel?”

There is some rustling of fabrics and then he hears a feminine moan. _I_ wish _I were asleep, so I didn’t have to listen to this shite,_ he thinks.

“Well, for a bit, but I can’t stay down there all night again.”

He hears giggling and retreating footsteps, and Sandor is thankful to be left alone. A few minutes later, just when he thinks he’s about to sleep, he hears a timid knock at his door. He grumbles as he goes to answer it. As soon as he opens it, Sansa is there, and she rushes in to shut the door behind her.

“Seven hells, girl, what are you doing here?” he growls, “You shouldn’t be here, that guard will come back any minute.”

She grabs his face and pulls his lips down to hers. Her kiss is long and hungry, but she separates from him much too soon. “Do you want me?” she asks in a quiet voice.

Now that she is still, he’s able to drink in her appearance. She is wearing a grey robe made from cotton, a silk ribbon tied about her waist, and her hair is cascading down her back in waves. “You already know the answer,” he says, his voice husky.

“I want to hear you say it,” she says. Her face is earnest, and he can see the anxiety in her gaze. “Please, Sandor. Do you want me?”

There is a different meaning behind her words that he doesn’t understand, he can hear it in her voice. Somehow, he already knows his answer, “Of course I do.”

Her eyes seem to widen slightly in surprise. She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him again, lingering and more tender than anything he has ever felt. When she breaks the kiss, she is looking at him with hooded eyes, her pupils so dilated that he can barely see any blue. She steps around him and towards the bed, her back turned to him.

“Take off your clothes.” It’s a command, but her voice is soft, almost trembling.

Sandor blinks rapidly, his mind barely registering her words. He shakes his head even though she isn’t looking at him and can’t see. He knows that she is doing this because she feels she owes him. “You don’t have to do any of this, little bird.”

“I know I don’t _have_ to; I want to,” she emphasizes. “Take off your clothes.” It comes out truer and firmer this time, and he is hard.

Of their own volition, his hands begin untying the front of his breeches. She reaches behind her head and folds her hair over her shoulder, revealing the back of her neck. She shrugs her robe off her shoulders, the cotton pooling around her feet like fresh snow.

 _She’s naked,_ he realizes. The first thing he looks at is her calves and thighs, how they’ve become thick with muscle from all the walking they’ve done the past fortnight. Her rear is round and plump, and he aches to feel it in his hands. When he gets to her back and shoulders, he feels guilt rise in his gut. Wide welts and thin white scars cover the span of them, and on closer inspection he can see that there are fainter marks on her thighs. Small bruises have blossomed on various parts of her body from their sparring.

“I…I look different,” she says through quivering breaths.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he says without any hesitation. He walks to her until his chest is just barely touching her back. He lifts his hands to her waist and leans down so he can lightly brush his lips against a pale scar on her shoulder. Her breath shudders, and he realizes that she is rigid beneath his touch. He releases her and straightens. “I’m sorry.” It is the first time he’s ever said those words to anybody, at least the first time in a very long while, and it makes him sick to say them.

“You did nothing wrong,” she says, “Please, take off your clothes and lay down.”

She crawls over the furs and settles on the right side of the bed. Once he’s gotten his breeches off, he settles on the other side on his back. She situates herself on her knees, one of them just barely grazing against his right thigh. He can see that she is self-conscious in her eyes, but she still straightens her back and holds her head high. The firelight reflects off her hair, making it look like liquid copper. Her breasts are full with little pink nipples at their tips. He can see faint white lines scattered across the swells of her bosom from where she’s grown. Below her navel is a thick patch of auburn curls, where her womansplace is.

She traces a fingertip up his calf and thigh, wrapping her hand around his cock when she reaches the end of her path. He rumbles low in his chest, thrusting into her hand as she stokes and holds and _works_ him. She leans over him, and he thinks she is going to kiss him again until she ducks her head and suckles on his neck. His back is completely taut from the pleasure she is giving him, and his breathing quickens.

She lifts herself from him, and he watches her with rapt attention as she caresses her other hand up her body and cups her breast. She encircles and pinches a hard nipple with her fingers, a breathy whimper escaping past her lips. Not once has she taken her eyes off his face. She thumbs at a bead of wetness at the tip of him and spreads it around his head, making him growl from the back of his throat. She has dropped her hand down from her breast and is now stroking her mound. She spreads herself with her fingers, allowing him to catch a glimpse of her glistening pink cunt as she works at her pearl in a circular motion. A light moan escapes from her mouth for just a moment, and her hips jerk forward.

He tries to lift himself onto his elbows, so he can be closer to her, but she stops her self-ministrations and presses her palm against his chest, pushing him roughly back against the mattress. As she leans forward and grazes her teeth against his ribs, she situates herself between his legs. She is kissing his hipbones and licking underneath his navel and it feels _so fucking good_ that he can’t even bring himself to deny her on her path.

She engulfs him with her hot, wet mouth, the pleasure so powerful that he almost finishes immediately, like a green boy. His blood is _scorching_ beneath his skin. His thoughts are all blurring together incomprehensibly, and he can’t focus on anything except her lips enclosed around him. She licks up the underside of his cock before flicking her tongue across the top. His back bows, his eyes screwing shut, hips thrusting upwards, and lets out an almost choked sound. He is fisting the furs and sheets so tightly that he thinks he might be ripping them, but he’s too distracted to care.

Her full pink lips wrap around him and suck hard, a loud wet sound coming from where her mouth is on him. When he opens his eyes, the sight before him is intoxicating. She is watching his face with darkened eyes, her ass in the air, and from the way her other arm is positioned and her moaning around his cock, he believes that she’s touching herself again. Her gaze is so intense and the pleasure she’s gifting him so great, that he can barely keep his eyes open and shuts them again. As he tries to regain control of his thoughts, he feels himself sheath deeper into her mouth. His eyes snap open, an embarrassing, broken sound coming from the back of his throat, and his hand reaches for her head before halting.

She glances to the side at his hand before taking it within her own and placing it on the top of her head, giving him permission to touch her. His fingers tangle within the fiery tresses of her hair, hissing through his teeth at her ministrations. Her hand returns to the base of his cock, her eyes fluttering closed and brows furrowing. She strokes him faster, sucks harder. She is rocking her body backwards, her moans vibrating around his cock. She circles her tongue around his head, her lips still wrapped around the tip of him, and he feels his orgasm approaching rapidly.

“Sansa, I’m about to- “She rocks backwards rather harshly, and a trembling moan sings from her throat. Her teeth just barely pinch his cock, “- Oh, gods, _fuck_. I’m about to come, woman.”

Not wanting to come in her mouth, he pulls her hair roughly and insistently. She separates from him, her eyes angry, and she is about to scold him when his orgasm crashes through him. He groans as his seed sprays from him, his legs shaking from the release. She startles and almost pulls her hand away from him, but he clasps his hand around hers, using both their hands to stroke himself through his climax.

After he’s spent, he watches her, completely enraptured by the sights that she’s bestowing on him. She is rocking her hips against her hand, her middle two fingers _inside_ herself. Her head is tilted back slightly as her breathing comes quick. She lets out a frustrated sound as she thrusts her fingers into her folds roughly, and he can see that she’s having trouble finding her own release.

He sits up and gently holds her waist. She tenses for a moment, but doesn’t tell him to stop. He grazes his teeth against her collarbone, a whimper escaping from her throat. “Come for me, little bird.” He suckles at a sweet spot between her neck and shoulder, and her legs start trembling. “ _Sing_ for me.”

She cries out then, a sound stuck between a sob and a moan, her legs shivering violently as she uses her fingers to ride out her orgasm. Her other hand lifts to his face, her fingers dancing lightly over his scars. Her eyes are shut tightly, and her mouth is hanging open and it is the most erotic thing he’s ever seen. When she has ridden out her release, she opens her eyes, her expression sated, confused, and tired all at once.

“Was that an orgasm?” she asks suddenly.

He laughs, thinking that she’s being funny, until she blushes, looking embarrassed. “Whatever you wish to call it. Peaking, releasing, coming.” She nods her understanding, then removes her hand from her cunt. He grips her wrist, bringing her fingers up to his mouth to suck her sweetness from them. “Where did you learn to do that?”

She gasps when his teeth meet her skin. “My- my handmaiden, Shae, told me how.” She glances back at the door before lifting herself from the mattress and onto the floor. Her legs are quaking as she pulls her robe around her body and ties it off at the waist. “I should go back to my room,” she says. He feels a foreign ache in his chest, but he knows she can’t stay. She turns back to him, cradling his face in her hands and kissing his lips lightly. “Thank you,” she whispers.

Then she is gone.

**…**

When she wakes the next morning, she feels a now familiar ache between her legs. She slides her hand down the expanse of her belly and dips her fingers into the wetness, remembering how she’d made Sandor writhe under her touch the night before. Having such a powerful man react in such a way to her attentions does things to her that she has no words for. She inserts a finger inside herself, a throaty moan escaping past her lips.

Whenever Shae told her to masturbate, she never thought that it would feel so good. Before last night, Sansa had only tried it once in her room in Maegor’s Holdfast, and she’d stopped after a few minutes of awkwardly rubbing her lower lips. She had not been wet enough for it to feel pleasurable, and she found it difficult to conjure an image in her mind that would ignite the spark within her.

Sansa hadn’t even originally planned to touch herself while she was with Sandor. When a maid had come to help Sansa bathe before their audience with Edmure and her mother, Sansa had undressed as she’d always done before her bath. When the maid saw Sansa’s back, she’d gasped audibly, a weak, “M’lady, your back,” whispered from her. Sansa felt her heart drop at that. She’d completely forgotten about her scars; Shae had never said anything about them before and Sansa had never felt the need to view them.

 _Could they truly look so terrible?_ She wondered.

She dismissed the maid to her other duties and washed herself. When she was clean, she turned her naked back to the vanity and held a hand mirror in front of her face so that she’d be able to see. And she did. Thin white scars, some deeper than others, covered the expanse of her back from where Meryn Trant had hit her with his blade along with large welts that still had not healed completely. Beneath her bottom were a few scars from the beating in the throne room. There were bruises of different sizes and colors across her whole body, but they didn’t bother her. The bruises were from her training with Sandor, and though it still hurt when he’d hit her with the stick, it served its purpose in teaching her a lesson. Her sparring matches with him were consensual, and if she’d ever expressed her discomfort, they would stop. In time the bruises would heal.

The other scars were different. They had been put there because of malicious reasons. She’d never be able to escape her memory of the Red Keep. Joffrey had etched his tortures into her skin, and every time someone gasped out when they saw them, she’d remember. She’d wondered if Sandor would still want her after seeing them. Before her body had been soft and lovely, but now the skin had texture where it had once been smooth. Her calves and thighs were hard with muscle. Ladies weren’t supposed to look like this.

She felt ugly.

She’d gone to his room looking for relief from these thoughts when the guard had been led away by a kitchen maid. Sansa yearned to feel wanted by him, and she knew that if anybody would be able to understand her feelings, it would be Sandor. She knows that her scars are not nearly as horrible as his, but the memory of how she’d gotten them still hurt her all the same. She’d bared her whole body for him to see, her soul, and he’d still wanted her.

She’d needed him to be naked as well if she was going to be. She felt an ache between her legs when she saw him. She knows that he has always been colossal, but with his clothes off he’s like a feast for her eyes. A light modicum of hair covered his chest and grew darker as it got closer to his groin. Scars from the battles he’s been in cover his body, and she found herself wanting to learn the story of each one.

His member was huge, as well. As she looked down at it, she was unsure whether something that massive would be able to fit inside of a woman. When she took him in hand he was hard as iron, and the skin was smooth. It throbbed with a pulse as he thrust into her hand. She felt an overwhelming need to stroke him, like Shae had told her to, and the sounds he made encouraged her to keep going. Her other hand started moving on her own body out of instinct, and when she’d felt the hard muscle beneath her palm when she’d pushed him against the mattress, she’d wanted to taste him.

Her orgasm rips through her body just as it had last night, and her legs tremble from the aftershocks. When the maid brings hot water for her bath and food to break her fast, Sansa is sure that her cheeks are as red as her hair. However, the maid doesn’t seem to notice. Sansa requests to bathe herself once again, still not feeling comfortable enough for others to see her scars. When she’s eaten and dressed, she picks up the hairbrush off the vanity and makes her way to her grandfather’s solar. Her hair is still wet, and the servants are looking at her strangely as she walks through the halls, but she doesn’t care.

The guard lets her through, and even though Sansa knows that her mother is still there, relief prickles through her skin at the sight of Catelyn overlooking the castle from the solar’s balcony. A fortnight ago Sansa had given up all hope of ever seeing her again, and yet she’s standing in Riverrun, her mother just a few feet from her. Cat strides over to her when she notices Sansa, looking just as relieved.

“Your hair, Sansa,” Catelyn laughs, “Did you come all this way looking like that?”

“I wanted you to brush my hair.” Sansa’s cheeks redden a little in discomfiture. “Like you used to.”

Her mother smiles and simply leads her to a chair. The bristles of the brush feel relaxing as they tickle her scalp, and the familiarity of the action brings tears to Sansa’s eyes. When a small sob escapes from her, Cat halts in her actions.

“Sansa, did I hurt you?” she asks.

“No, I’m sorry.” _Quit your chirping._ Sansa clears her throat to stop the quivering in her voice. “I just really missed this is all. I never thought I’d see you again.”

Catelyn is silent as she goes back to brushing Sansa’s hair. She remembers when her mother used to do this back in Winterfell, how she would run her hands through Sansa’s hair as she brushed it. She never did it for Arya, for reasons that Sansa didn’t know or understand. Arya had cut a braid out of Sansa’s hair once when they were very young, and Cat had been so upset. They’d had to cut Sansa’s hair down to her chin, and she had cried all the while.

Sansa had never accepted Arya’s apology, and it hurt for her to think on that.

“I wish Arya were here,” Sansa says quietly.

Her mother’s brushing gets slower, but she does not stop. “I know, my love.” Her next words are lined with hatred, “We will make the Lannisters pay for what they’ve done to us.”

Sansa hardly recognizes her mother’s voice. She remembers Catelyn being a kind and generous woman, not one for vengeance. Sansa is not even sure if she _wants_ to fight anymore. The only person she’s ever wanted to kill is Joffrey, and he’s all the way back in King’s Landing. She just wants to go home now.

Her mother begins braiding Sansa’s hair when it has shone. “That dress was mine when I was younger, you know. So was the one you wore yesterday.” There is a smile in her voice. “It’s almost like looking into a mirror of the past. You’ve grown so tall and look like the true lady you were always meant to be.”

 _You haven’t seen the rest of me,_ Sansa thinks bitterly, but the compliment from her mother does heal some of the hurt she feels inside about her appearance.

Something keeps eating away at Sansa, though. “Mother, why did Robb never come for me?”

Her mother’s hands falter in Sansa’s hair, but she does not answer the question. When Catelyn finishes with her hair, she sits in a chair across from Sansa. Her eyes are filled with unshed tears as she takes Sansa’s hands in her own.

“Tell me of your travelling with the Hound,” she says, and Sansa swallows thickly. _She’s avoiding the question,_ Sansa realizes, but she doesn’t refuse her mother.

She tells her mother almost everything of their journey from King’s Landing to Riverrun. _Almost_ everything. She recounts how they’d escaped the Red Keep and their five-day voyage from King’s Landing to the south of God’s Eye. She speaks of her first sparring lessons with Sandor. She details how they’d come to meet the ghost of High Heart on a tall hill and of her odd dreams.

She decides to leave out the night when Sandor had fallen off his horse. It’s a personal memory, and besides her mother probably wouldn’t be happy to hear of it. Sansa is still a lady, after all. A princess now. If Sansa told anyone about the things she’d done with Sandor, he would be a prisoner in earnest.

“Sansa, we are alone right now, and he will not hurt you. Did the Hound touch you in any way that he shouldn’t have?” Cat asks.

Sansa feels like a child the way her mother is talking to her and it makes her bristle a little. “No, Mother, he never touched me,” she almost growls as he does, but instead it comes out sounding rough. “He’s an honorable man unlike any knight I’ve ever met. He _never_ did anything I didn’t want him to do.”

Catelyn stares in her eyes a moment longer, then nods in understanding, supposedly finding what she was looking for. “Very well. I believe you, Sansa. I still don’t trust him, but if he hasn’t ever hurt you then I won’t fight it if Robb accepts him into his ranks.”

Sansa feels calmed with her mother saying that, a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding puffing from her mouth. “Thank you, Moth- “

“-But if he ever harms you, we will punish him.” Cat’s voice is firm and demanding, and it makes a tremble run down Sansa’s spine. Sansa nods her understanding.

Afterwards, Sansa finds out from one of the guards where the soldiers train. She picks a practice spear from the bunch that they have in the shed. It’s heavier and much taller than her little stick she had, probably even taller than Sandor. They had taken her stick yesterday, not because they were confiscating it but because she didn’t see a reason to have such a flimsy weapon when there were perfectly good ones in the castle. When she makes it to the training yard, she isn’t entirely sure what to do. She doesn’t know anybody or feel comfortable enough to spar with a stranger. There are practice dummies lined up along a wall, so she starts there.

She feels awkward swinging and stabbing randomly at the dummy. Not having an actual sparring partner has left her wondering what exactly she’s supposed to do, and the other men are looking at her strangely.

“Your form is good, but your movements are stiff.”

Sansa halts in her actions, turning her head to see who has addressed her. He is a stout man with a white beard and shoulder length hair. His vest has a blue crest with three martlets across the surface sewn on the front. His posture is straight, and his hands are folded behind his back.

“Princess Sansa Stark, I presume?” he asks.

“Yes,” she answers.

“I am Ser Desmond Grell, the master-at-arms here in Riverrun.” He bows slightly at the waist as he introduces himself. “I’ve known your mother since I was a squire and she a babe. You look like her, when she was younger.”

“Thank you, ser. My uncle Edmure says the same,” she replies.

He is silent as he looks at the spear, the dummy, then back to her. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but shouldn’t you be inside practicing your stitching or praying in the sept, perhaps? Surely, combat is too brutish for a lady such as yourself.”

She feels a spike of irritation surge at his words. She is a princess of Winterfell; if she wishes to train with a spear then she’ll do it. She thinks of Arya and wonders if she’d always felt as frustrated as Sansa is now. However, she will not take her aggression out on this man, who’s pledged himself to her brother. She certainly won’t throw a fit like Joffrey would have. After all, it is simply the way of things, and she will not gain anything by being angry.

“Ser Desmond, I will never allow myself to be a prisoner of anyone’s ever again. If I need to feel a few aches in my muscles and gain a bruise or two in order to prevent it, then I will.”

He raises his eyebrows slightly, surprised with her frankness. He nods his head in agreement. “Of course, Princess. I meant no disrespect.” He is silent for a few seconds, and Sansa turns back to the dummy, stabbing it in its gut. “Did the Hound teach you?”

She nods, jerking her spear back and smacking the dummy’s head. “He is the strongest man in all of Westeros,” she says honestly.

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Your Grace. The victories he has won are numerous.” He shuffles from one foot to the other. “Princess, if you would have it, I can spar with you and help you with your training. I’m no Hound, but it’s certainly better than battling a burlap sack filled with stuffing.”

She regards him a moment before nodding her consent. “That would be preferable.”

His eyes wander over her body, more so examining her dress than her figure. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Princess, your dress is not fit for fighting. So many skirts and ties will get in the way of your movements and hinder you. If you’ll allow it, I can arrange to have a change of suitable clothes made for you. I can train with you today, and you should be fine.”

“Of course, Ser. Whatever you feel is best.”

That’s her routine for the next moon. Her and Sandor are not able to make any late-night visits anymore, but she visits him during the day, so he doesn’t lose his mind in loneliness. She likes to bring her white cloak, now clean, so that she can work on her sewing, and they sit in silence as he watches her. By the end of the month she has stitched half the head of a fluffy, black wolfdog in the cloth. The clothes that Desmond Grell supplies her with for her training feel odd on her body for the first few days, but she quickly grows used to them. Her mother doesn’t approve of the attire or training, of course. The leather jerkin is knee length and clings tightly to Sansa’s body, and she wears a pair of breeches underneath to cover her legs. She trains twice a day like she had with Sandor, even in the rain which is seemingly frequent in the riverlands.

She is sparring in the yard with Ser Desmond when the commotion breaks out. The dogs in the kennels start barking and snarling as if there are enemies near. At first, Sansa is afraid, then she hears the howl of a wolf, and her heart skips a beat at the sound. She throws the spear down and sprints as fast as she can to the gates.

As she approaches the courtyard, she slows her steps, her lungs burning, but she doesn’t care or seem to notice. Robb is standing there, just a few steps from her talking to their uncle Edmure. He is no longer the boy she remembered, but a man, stocky in build and tall. His face is no longer easy-going, but tough from war, and his red-brown hair has grown to his shoulders.

“Robb!” she calls, but her voice is trembling, and vision blurred.

He turns to her, his face so covered in hard-lines softening at the sight of her. His eyes are glassy as she’s sure hers are. She runs to him then, jumping up into his arms to hold him in a tight embrace. His scent is surrounding her, a scent of mud and rain and sweat, and it reminds her of her other brothers...Even Jon.

“Bran and Rickon…” Sansa sobs, desperately needing the comfort that Robb can give her.

“I know,” he whispers, rubbing her back. They stay like that a minute more until he lowers her to the ground. “We have a lot to talk about, Sansa. Uncle, tell the other lords that we’ll meet in the Great Hall in an hour. I would like some time to visit with my sister.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” Edmure bows to Robb before walking away.

“I will send for you in a bit, Jeyne,” Robb says to a pretty girl next to them. He squeezes the girl’s, Jeyne’s, hand before taking Sansa’s beneath his arm and leading her to his own rooms. They sit down next to the fire, and she tells him everything. She tells him of her time in and how she’d escaped King’s Landing. She tells him of all Sandor’s ever done for her. He doesn’t interrupt her at all, just sits and listens until she’s finished.

“Sansa, the Hound has a reputation. The northmen will never accept him amongst their ranks, and the rivermen won’t either after what his brother has done to their lands,” he says.

“Please, Robb, he’s done so much for me. He has never hurt me, and if it weren’t for him, I would’ve never been brought back to you,” she reasons, “Just give him a chance. He is not his brother, nor is he our enemy. He will be loyal to us.” _To me,_ she thinks, but she does not say it.

He ponders her words for a moment. “I understand, Sansa. I took the Westerlings for my allies from Tywin Lannister. The lord of their house battled us at the Whispering Wood.” He is silent before nodding. “Alright, Sansa, I will do this thing for you. You tell me he wishes to pledge himself to me, I’ll let him. Don’t expect the other lords to be happy about it, though.”

She smiles. “Of course. Thank you, Robb.”

“We’ll be meeting with the lords in the Great Hall soon to judge Mother and the Hound.” He looks down at her clothes and laughs. “Are you going to change into a dress? You look like a boy in those clothes.”

Sansa laughs with him. “And you smell like one.”

She goes to her room to change into a simple steel-grey dress and is escorted to the Great Hall within the next few minutes. When she enters, she recognizes some of the northern bannermen around her. She sees an older woman in patched ringmail and a mace on her belt, and Sansa can only guess that she’s Lady Maege Mormont of Bear Island. Two gigantic men are standing with her, about as tall as Sandor, and Sansa knows that they are of House Umber, the Greatjon and one of his sons she presumes. The younger of the two has long brown hair and a great bushy beard, and he is staring at her in a way that Sandor sometimes does. She holds his gaze for a moment before blushing and looking away. A man Sansa recognizes as Rickard Karstark is among the sea of faces.

The others she does not recognize. A tall, lean man carrying a winged helm, a long-haired man with a salt-and-pepper beard wearing a cloak made from raven feathers. On the dais behind Robb is the pretty girl with chestnut curls, a younger girl about Sansa’s age, and an older woman that looks to be their mother. A boy stands by the king, acting as his squire it seems. Two other gentlemen are on the dais, as well, one wearing a sand colored surcoat emblazoned with seashells and the other with three black pepperpots on a striped surcoat. A weathered older man with a cloak fastened around his shoulders with an obsidian fish clasp is standing closer to the edge of the dais, and Sansa can see that he’s a Tully because of the colors the cloak displays. Her uncle Edmure is standing next to him.

“Lords and ladies, I present to you my sister, Princess Sansa Stark. She has returned to us from King’s Landing,” Robb projects through the hall. He looks very kingly, with his jagged crown of bronze and black iron.

The older Tully steps down from the dais and holds her hands in his. “Princess, I’m glad to see you safe and back with us.”

Sansa bows her head respectfully. “Thank you, Ser.”

“I am Ser Brynden Tully, your mother’s uncle.” He is looking at her with wet eyes. “You look so much like her.”

 _The Blackfish._ Her mother has told Sansa all about him, but this is the first time she’s meeting him. Though his hair has become grey from age, his eyes are a brilliant bright blue. She takes her place on the dais, and Edmure steps down so that Robb can praise him for his victory at the Stone Mill. A surge of pride for her brother beats in her when the rivermen praise, _King of the Trident,_ and the Greatjon roars, _King in the North_. Catelyn is escorted in next, Ser Desmond standing at a respectful distance from her. Robb pardons her for releasing the Kingslayer, though Rickard Karstark was none too pleased about it. He storms out of the hall in a huff.

Sandor is brought in next, and whispers echo through the halls as he stops at the edge of the dais. His eyes chance over to her before he bends to his knee. Robb raises a hand to call for quiet.

“Sandor Clegane,” Robb begins, his tone completely changed from when he was talking with her in privacy. “It is to my understanding that you are the one who brought my sister back to us.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sandor answers.

“Princess Sansa tells me that you protected her during her time in the Red Keep and that you left the battle of the Blackwater so that you could steal her away.”

Sandor’s eyes flick to her for a moment. It is a little white lie she’s told on his behalf. She would never tell anyone the real reason he’d abandoned the battle. “Yes, Your Grace.”

Robb nods. “Is it true that you want to pledge yourself to House Stark?”

“It’s true,” Sandor responds, “If you would allow it, I want to become Princess Sansa’s sworn shield.”

“You can’t honestly consider this, Your Grace!” the man with the winged helm yells, “Gregor Clegane burned my lands!”

The hall erupts in angry voices then. Sansa can hardly make out what anybody’s screaming: accusations being thrown around, curses being yelled. Sandor is still kneeling and not saying anything. She is reminded of that day on the steps of the Sept of Baelor, and she is starting to feel a little faint.

“Enough!” Robb shouts over them, and the hall is immediately silent. “I will not punish someone for the crimes of their brother, nor will I condemn someone who has reunited me with my sister against the wishes of my enemy.” Sansa can see that none of the lords are happy, but they do not move to speak up. Robb turns his attention to her. “Is this what you want, Princess?”

She gives him a brief nod. “It would please me very much, Your Grace.”

Robb looks back to Sandor. “Rise, Sandor Clegane.” Sandor does as he’s bid. “By my honor as the King in the North and a Stark of Winterfell, I hereby grant you the boon with which you ask and release you from your imprisonment. You now have free passage within the castle, and we will accept you within our ranks as an ally. We will arrange for you to swear yourself to my sister on the morrow in front of the heart tree in the godswood.”

Sandor bows at the waist. The steward calls for an end to the audience, and the lords and ladies exit the Great Hall. Sandor stares at her for a moment before following after them. Lady Maege and the Greatjon go to her mother to offer their sympathies. Sansa gasps audibly when the enormous man picks up Cat from the shoulders.

“Forgive him, Your Grace. My father has no sense when it comes to courtesies.” She turns to who’s addressing her and is met by the smaller Umber. He takes one of her hands and bows. “It’s an honor to finally meet you, Princess. I am Jon Umber, though you can call me Smalljon if you prefer. My father is the Greatjon.”

 _Of course, he’s a giant!_ she thinks. “Thank you, Jon, it’s good to meet you as well.”

He bows one final time before exiting the hall with Lady Mormont and the Greatjon. The only ones left in the hall are her family and the other family on the dais. Robb begins awkwardly introducing each of them to Sansa and Catelyn, starting with the beautiful older woman to the squire. They are the Westerlings of the Crag, Robb tells them. Once sworn to the Lannisters and now sworn to Robb after he conquered them. Finally, the maid, Jeyne, steps forward, a shy smile on her face. She really is quite a beauty, with her soft brown eyes and heart shaped face.

“Mother, Sansa,” Robb begins, taking Jeyne’s hand within his own, “I have the great honor to present you the Lady Jeyne Westerling. Lord Gawen’s elder daughter, and my…ah…my lady wife.”

Catelyn looks confused and surprised, but Sansa feels happiness swell in her heart and her cheeks flush with color. _I have a new sister,_ she thinks, and she steps forward, holding the shy maid’s wrists within a gentle hold. “Sister, I welcome you into our family. I look forward to learning more about you; it’s been so long since I’ve had a lady friend.”

Cat seems to come to her senses and places her hand on Jeyne’s shoulder, smiling softly. “I have a new daughter,” she says in a firm voice, kissing Jeyne’s cheek, “Be welcome to our hall and hearth.”

The shy girl is blushing handsomely, her eyes a little dewy. “Thank you, my lady, princess. I shall be a good and true wife to Robb, I swear. And as wise a queen as I can.”

 _Her voice is as soft as her eyes,_ Sansa muses. “Please, call me Sansa, my queen. We are sisters, after all.”

Jeyne smiles. “Of course. Then you may call me Jeyne, Sansa.”

Jeyne’s mother, Lady Sybell Spicer, requests that she and her family be shown to their rooms which Edmure sees to. When they are gone, Catelyn begins questioning Robb, and Sansa understands why her mother had been shocked when she’d learned of Robb’s marriage to Jeyne. Robb had originally been promised to a Frey of the Twins. However, when Robb starts telling them of how he and Jeyne had come to be, Sansa’s heart flutters within her chest. It is such a lovely story, a tale so enchanting it could’ve been a song. Nevertheless, her mother is still not pleased with any of it.

“Your Grace, perhaps we had best continue this in private,” Ser Brynden suggests.

“Yes,” Robb agrees, his face becoming tired, “I would kill for a cup of wine. The audience chamber, I think.”

Sansa takes the Blackfish’s arm when he offers, and she follows them up the serpentine stairs to the audience chamber. Uncle Edmure is speaking to Ser Brynden of the battle at the Stone Mill and her mother about the direwolves to Robb, and Sansa can’t seem to focus on any of their conversations. All Sansa can think about is Sandor, how he’s been promised to be her sworn shield. He will never leave her side now, and the joy she feels in her heart because of it is so overwhelming that she can hardly keep her imagination in check. She sits in the audience chamber next to her mother, and she hands Sansa a goblet of wine when the servants bring it. She sips from the cup sparingly, too lost in her thoughts to focus on what’s being said. They are arguing, she knows, about the Stone Mill and how her uncle had ruined Robb’s plans. She feels bad for her uncle Edmure for their scolding, but she does not have the battle sense in order to defend him. It isn’t until Robb mentions winning back the Freys and her mother suggests something that brings Sansa out of her reveries.

“Not something, someone,” Cat begins, “Offer Edmure and Sansa to the Freys.”

“Mother, I- “Robb starts.

Sansa becomes angry at her words. “I will _not_ marry a Frey.”

“Sansa, it is your duty to your family to marry into alliances,” Catelyn says, “I had to do it and so did Lysa. Arya will have to, as well. Have you forgotten what your Septa has taught you?”

“I don’t care if it’s my duty or not!” Sansa counters, “I am a princess of Winterfell.”

“Which is exactly why you _should_ marry one of Lord Walder’s sons,” her mother reasons, “He won’t get a king, but he’ll still be joined with House Stark.”

“I won’t do it, you can’t make me!”

“Stop fight, both of you!” Robb shouts. “Mother, Sansa has already been promised to someone else.”

“Her engagement with Joffrey was broken the moment she left the Red Keep. Besides, he is now to marry Margaery Tyrell,” Catelyn says.

“No, Mother, I…” Robb is nervous now, looking between the both of them, “…I promised her to Jon Umber.”

Sansa is absolutely fuming now. “The Greatjon? He’s old enough to be my grandfather.”

“Not the Greatjon, the Smalljon,” Robb corrects. “Sansa, I wanted to wait to tell you, give you some time to get to know and warm up to him.”

Sansa’s hands are shaking, her fury is so great. She’d thought her family loved her better than this, that they would ask her what _she_ wanted. She thought maybe eventually they’d allow her to marry San- well, someone she loves. She stands and throws her cup at Robb, wine soaking his cloak and clinging to his hair, the brass goblet clattering against the floor.

“Sansa!” her mother cries out in surprise.

“I am not some bitch in heat that you can pass to whomever you want whenever you feel like it!” she shouts.

“Sansa, he is your king,” the Blackfish argues.

“He is my _brother_!” she cries, her eyes filling with tears. Some part of her feels deceived. She’d had this pretty picture in her mind that her family would let her choose her own husband, instead of using her for a pawn.

“I could make you marry a Frey instead, would you like that better?” Robb threatens, “Sansa, the Smalljon is a good man. He’ll treat you well.”

Sansa storms to the door, jerking it open. “Bugger you to the seventh hell, Robb!” Then she is gone with that final word, tears streaming down her face. She’d escaped one cage and walked straight into another one without even realizing it. _I’ll always be a hostage, it seems._ Her heart feels like it’s been crushed in her chest. She feels like she’s being forsaken by the ones she’d always held most dear to her, betrayed and unloved by them.

She doesn’t know how long she’s been walking through the halls, but somehow, she finds herself outside next to the kennels. A fluttering has taken over her heart, and she feels her cheeks starting to heat up. Her sadness is intermingling with happiness, and she doesn’t understand why.

Until she looks up.

A smoke grey direwolf a little smaller than a horse is staring at her with shining yellow eyes. _Grey Wind._ He looks like Lady, and she almost cries out at the sight of him. She feels a heaving within her chest, pulling at her, urging her to approach him. Before she had felt confused and lost, now she has found her way. She has never felt these things before, as if her body, thoughts, and emotions were not her own but something else’s entirely. The wolf walks to her slowly and stops in front of her, sniffing the air she breathes. She reaches her hand up to caress the soft fur on his face, and she feels a sob escape from her throat. Grey Wind whimpers as he nuzzles his snout against her face.

 _I’m sorry, sister,_ she hears, but the sound is otherworldly and inhuman. It fills her with bliss to hear it, but also a strange sense of loss all at once. The beating within her has grown frantic, and she feels something trying to claw its way out, a mournful sound illuminating from her heart. The world around her has formed a clarity with which she hadn’t known since Lady had died.

 _I know, brother._ And Sansa knows what is speaking, can feel it consuming what she once was and creating her anew.

Sansa falls forward and hugs Grey Wind about his neck.

**…**

Sandor can tell that she’s off today.

She came to him that morning with a temper, wearing her leather jerkin and breeches. She’d woken him up at an ungodly hour so that he could train with her. The sun hadn’t even risen yet. Against his expressed wishes, he somehow finds himself in the training yard with her. Rain is drizzling from the sky and biting against his flesh. His armor certainly doesn’t help fight the chill in the air. He is tired, hungry, cold, wet, and not in a good mood at all.

The wolf hasn’t left her side, either. It scares the life out of him when he sees it, not expecting it to be so huge. They used to be no bigger than normal dogs the last time he’d seen one of them. He didn’t even know they could get to such large sizes in so short a time. At first the wolf bristles at the sight of him, mouth snarled so viciously that it put Sandor himself to shame. Sansa simply lays a hand against the beast’s muzzle, and he calms. There is something odd about the whole exchange, as if some form of sorcery is involved with it.

The first thing he realizes when they start sparring is that he’s sorely out of practice. Now, she’s hitting _him_ more, and he’s having trouble countering some of her attacks. She gets irritated a couple times, and demands that he give her everything he’s got. It causes him to become annoyed, as well, which succeeds in him laying into her more.

Then he starts realizing that she’s actually gotten decent at being able to defend herself. Her form has improved tremendously since last he sparred with her, and her movements are more methodical and flow easier with her body. He finds himself appreciating the way her physique has molded in the past month. Her waist and legs make her look even more voluptuous and shapely, and her arms seem to have a tad more definition than they had before. He even thinks her breasts have grown.

Now, he is tired, hungry, cold, wet, and hard.

While he’s distracted with the perusal of her figure, she trips him with the shaft of her spear sending him tumbling to the ground. He lands violently on his back, and her foot presses against his breastplate. She is looking down on him as she points the tip of her spear at his neck, and it takes all he has in him not to pull her breeches down and bring her cunt to his face right then and there.

She leaves him there without a single word, and he’s left blinking confusedly at the clouds. He pulls himself up and follows her into a tool shed to the side of the training yard. Grey Wind cannot fit through the door, so he stays outside. When Sandor shuts the door behind him, Sansa is kicking over a barrel full of practice spears. He stands there, watching her, as she sits on top of a small, round table against the wall. She pushes the wet hair out of her face and leans her head in her hands. Her knees are spread beneath her elbows, and gods be damned if it doesn’t make him want her more.

“What’s gotten you in a fit?” he asks.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says brusquely.

He nods his understanding. He knows what it’s like to be so extremely angry that you want to shut everyone out. He’s had to deal with it all his life. There were only ever two things that helped him forget his aggressions for a while. Dornish sour red and a good fuck. There wasn’t any wine near, so maybe if he pleasured her it would help clear her mind.

Though, he’s never pleasured a woman before. The only women he’d ever been with were whores, a serving wench once in a blue moon, but he’d never worried about pleasing them. They were a means to an end for him. He doesn’t even know how to segue into it. Sansa had been the one in control the night she came to him, somehow knowing exactly what to say and do to turn him on. As he looks at her legs, though, how the wet fabric of the breeches cling to them, it comes to him.

“You know, those clothes really suit you,” he hums, stepping in between her legs. They are mere inches apart.

Her eyes narrow at him suspiciously. “Robb says I look like a boy.”

He chuckles softly at that, biting his lower lip as he makes a show of gazing at her body. “I think you look woman enough. With these- “he cups her breasts in both hands, and she gasps in surprise, “-and this.” He moves a hand underneath her jerkin and caresses the space between her legs.

“What are you doing?” she asks breathily, but she does not show any kind of resistance to his actions.

“I’m going to make you sing, little bird.”

“In a tool shed? Someone could walk in on us,” she says, though she is smirking mischievously, and her eyes have darkened.

“I think I can make you come before then,” he says. She moans when his fingers rub what he thinks is her clit through the fabric of her breeches, and his control has been lost. He leans over her harshly, pushing her back against the table and applying more pressure to her sweet spot. One of her hands grabs his bicep and the other is holding his wrist as her legs clamp around his hand. He nips at her neck and buries his face in her hair. “I want you, Sansa. I want to feel your wetness around my fingers, want to taste it with my tongue.”

“Sandor, ah!” she gasps when he nibbles on the outer shell of her ear. His hand leaves her cloth covered cunt to pull at the drawstrings of her breeches. “Sandor, please, _stop_!”

He backs away from her as if she’s burned him. She is looking at him with tears in her eyes and shaking. Has he hurt her? She seemed to be enjoying it, even held him to her. Maybe it was because she hadn’t told him he could touch her. He’d broken the agreement she’d set in place, and now he feels the shame of it all.

“Sandor, I’m…My brother gave me to the Smalljon,” she says.

It’s like a slap to the face when she tells him, first a stinging hurt feeling then the anger that comes after it. It comes as almost no surprise to him, either. He was under no delusion that they’d be spending their lives together, that she’d want him the way he sometimes wants her. Besides, he’s too lowborn, the second son of a minor house, and his face too ugly.

“I’m so sorry, Sandor,” she says, her lower lip trembling, “I wanted to tell you after- “

“After what? After I swore myself to you?” He backs away from her on unsteady feet, his eyes narrowed at her incredulously.

“Sandor, please…” she utters.

“What? Do you _want_ me to touch you now?” He lets out a bark of a laugh. “Or is it the Smalljon you want? Princess Sansa Umber has a nice ring to it. Will you sing him your pretty song when he thrusts into you, little bird? Will you tell him how much you love to have him touch you?”

Sansa looks speechless at his words, her mouth slightly parted as though she wishes to say something. He knows he has no right to be upset with her. He knew from the beginning that she was using him for her own purposes, to explore her sexuality and to somehow repay him he’s sure. He has no rights to her body, nor are they his to claim.

The tears finally fall from her eyes and cascade down her cheeks. “How can you say that?” she sobs, “You are the one that I- “she stops herself and takes a breath. “When I marry him, I will _belong_ to him. It will be my duty to lay with him whether I wish it or not, Sandor. I have no choice.”

He runs a hand down his face. “Go.” He feels that he is getting angrier, and he doesn’t want to do anything to hurt her, nor does he want her to see him like that. He knows that he is not the only one hurting from this. She wouldn’t be crying if that were so; probably, wouldn’t have even told him.

She stands from the table and takes a step towards him. “Sandor,” she takes his hand within her own before saying, “I really am sorry.”

He jerks his hand away from her. “I don’t need your chirping. Leave me be.” She reaches to his face and touches her fingertips against his burnt cheekbone. Even though he craves to lean into her touch and accept the comfort she’s giving him, he grabs her wrist and holds it away from him. “I said _go_ , woman!”

She stares at him a moment more before taking her leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo!
> 
> So, I added the tag Mythical Beings & Creatures because I made the direwolves more magical and larger than they are in the books. I really like the movie Princess Mononoke, and that helped inspire some of the aspects in this chapter, such as the change in the direwolves physiology.
> 
> Also, I want to thank everyone who's left a kudo, commented, and bookmarked this work. It always makes my day to see that people enjoy my writing.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoyed reading, and let me know if you liked or disliked something. Again, constructive criticism is welcome and wanted!


	3. How to Break a Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed to finish this chapter! Whew. I'm sorry it took so long. So much stuff happened. (FInals, Christmas, etc.) I'm so incredibly happy with the response this fic has gotten, I really didn't expect it to be so accepted within the SanSan community. You are all so nice!

Sandor sets himself to cleaning his armor in order to calm himself, too upset to eat and not having enough time to fight it out of his system in the yard. If he had any wine, he’d be drowning in it by now. He was to be Sansa Stark’s sworn shield soon, though, sword of the Princess of Winterfell and King Robb Stark’s heir. He would not shame her by showing up to the ceremony drunk, no matter how angry he was.

Once he’s bathed, eaten, and re-equipped his armor, a northern man and woman come to escort him to the godswood, despite him telling them that he does not need one. They are both about as tall as him, the woman lanky and the man bulky. The woman introduces herself as Dacey Mormont. He feels his blood start to boil again when the man presents himself as Jon Umber, but Sandor keeps his thoughts to himself. Years of guarding the Lannisters have made him an expert at being able to keep his anger in check when it’s required of him. As they walk through the halls in front of him, they talk amongst themselves.

“Did you see her, Dacey?” the Smalljon asks. “She’s beautiful. I’ve never seen eyes so blue.” Sandor knows who he’s talking about, and he tightens his fists at his sides.

“Lovestruck already, Jon?” Dacey laughs.

“She’s a fighter!” he exclaims, his eyes wide with wonder, “Did you see her clothes yesterday when she came to greet the king? I wonder what she fights with. A staff, maybe? Or perhaps a hand-axe?”

“She fights with a spear,” Sandor answers.

The Smalljon glances back at him before looking forward dreamily. “A spear. I should’ve guessed it with the way her body’s shaped.”

“Can men admire any other qualities in women other than the physical ones?” Dacey asks with a raised brow, “Women are more complex than you men realize.”

“I only met her yesterday, Dacey. I’m sure she’s kind and gentle, like the Lady Catelyn. Or maybe fierce and wild like a true northern woman.”

_She’ll eat you alive,_ Sandor thinks.

When they enter the godswood, the tall redwood trees make Sandor feel small. He can hear the light trickling sounds of a stream nearby, and the heavy floral scent in the air makes him think of Sansa. It has since stopped raining, and tiny droplets cling to the flowers, making them sparkle when the light hits them right.

There is a small congregation already gathered at the sorrowful-faced heart tree. The Smalljon goes to stand with his father and Dacey with the warrior woman Sandor saw yesterday in the Great Hall. A few other lords are there that he does not recognize. Lady Catelyn and the other Tullys are standing in the front of the crowd, along with the Westerlings, and Robb is beside the heart tree.

His breath gets caught in his throat when he sees Sansa standing in between the makeshift aisle the host has made, right in front of the weirwood, Grey Wind at her side. He is reminded of when he saw her in the Red Keep’s godswood which seems like so long ago. She is truly radiant, her green velvet dress held around her body with a golden sash and trimmed in the same gold fabric. The dagged sleeves reach the ground, and though the velvet stops at her elbows, it continues on with a translucent material. Her hair has been braided in a complicated northern style, shining like copper in the late morning sun. It is the first time he’s ever seen her look so elegant, and he knows that she is a true princess of the north.

When he approaches her, Robb starts the ceremony. “Who comes before the old gods this morning?”

Sandor has never experienced a northern ceremony beneath a heart tree, but he knows what he has to do. “Sandor of House Clegane to swear myself to the service of Princess Sansa of House Stark.”

Robb nods. “Kneel, Sandor Clegane, and lay down your sword.” Sandor does as he’s bid, unsheathing his sword, and laying it at her feet. “Swear your oaths in the sight of the old gods.”

“I, Sandor Clegane, swear to be your shield and sword, Princess Sansa Stark. I will give my life for yours, should it ever come to that. I swear it in the sight of the old gods.”

She does not look away from him as she says in a soft voice, “I, Princess Sansa Stark, vow to always have a place for you in my home and at my table, Sandor Clegane. I will never ask you to perform a task that might bring you dishonor. I swear it in the sight of the old gods.”

“Rise, Sandor Clegane,” Robb says. Sandor stands and sheathes his sword. “May the old gods watch over you and give your sword strength as sworn shield to Princess Sansa Stark.”

From that day onward, Sandor shadows Sansa wherever she goes. They keep with their training schedule, and sometimes Ser Desmond Grell joins them. She goes to the godswood every day, and it gives him a chance to just look at her and admire her beauty as she prays. Sometimes, she’ll go to the sept with her mother. Though she doesn’t seem to like going there very much. Sansa tries to spend time with Queen Jeyne whenever she can, though, the little queen doesn’t want to be anywhere near Grey Wind, who goes with Sansa almost wherever she does. He can tell that Sansa is really saddened by it, desperately wanting someone to share a companionship with. She hasn’t sought out Robb at all, only speaking to him whenever it’s absolutely necessary. Most days she’ll just sit in her room and work on her stitching, continuing her project on her white cloak. Sandor never speaks a word to her, only to instruct her during their training sessions.

The Smalljon spends a lot of time with her, much to Sandor’s displeasure. If that wasn’t the worst part, Sansa seemed to be warming up to him, even liking him. At first, she’d been shy and quiet around Jon, but she’d slowly been opening up to him. She’ll spar with the Smalljon sometimes during their training sessions, though she gets vocal about her annoyance with him for holding back on her. It makes Sandor sick to listen to them talk with each other, how happy and natural they sound together, how she laughs when he says something funny, the way she holds his arm when it’s offered. It makes him want to tear the Smalljon apart, which in turn makes him feel worse. Sansa cares for the Smalljon now. Maybe not in the loving way a person would for her future husband, but he knows that they are better friends now, that she could eventually _grow_ to love him. In the end, all Sandor wants is for her to be happy, even if it’s not with him.

She seemingly got worse after the deaths of Tion Frey and Willem Lannister. It was almost as if they were back in King’s Landing, where she constantly wore a mask of blankness on her face, her eyes swollen from crying and dark circles beneath. She hardly ever leaves her chambers, only to join her family for meals. When others speak to her, they often have to capture her attention and repeat themselves. She doesn’t go to the godswood or the sept. She won’t go out to train. She doesn’t even welcome or seek out the company of Grey Wind, and it’s beginning to worry Sandor beyond belief.

The Smalljon came to her one morning while she was working on the cloak, her fingers shaking and struggling to pierce the fabric with her needle. Sandor was standing guard inside her room, just beside the open door.

“Princess Sansa,” Jon greets, bowing at the waist. “If it please you, I was hoping you might join me in the godswood.” She is looking at him with a blank expression, her lips parted slightly. She finds a stopping place with her stitching and sets the cloak aside.

“Of course, Jon.” She approaches her wardrobe and withdraws a dark cloak from within. She starts to wrap herself in the cloth, and Sandor takes a step forward to help her…But Jon is there before him, and he situates it about her shoulders before clasping it in the front with her sapphire brooch. She is blushing, and Sandor feels the ache in his chest from it. She takes Jon’s arm when he offers it, and Sandor follows them out the door and to the godswood.

“The godswood here in Riverrun is very beautiful. Though, I’m sure you miss the godswood of Winterfell.”

“Truthfully, I never visited the godswood much as a child. It used to scare me.” She is quiet a moment before adding, “After my father died, I found more comfort in the godswood.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” he says, a look of guilt on his face, “I did not mean to bring up sad memories for you.”

When they make it to the heart tree, they kneel beneath its face, their knees pointing slightly towards each other. “There is nothing that needs to be forgiven. Though it does hurt sometimes to remember, it helps keep me focused on what’s important.”

Sandor sees the Smalljon’s fingers tighten on his lap before turning his head to look at him. “Clegane. If you would allow it, I’d like a moment alone with my betrothed.”

He sees the panicked look on Sansa’s face before she steels her expression. “Please understand, Jon, I would feel safer with my sworn shield by my side. Anything you have to say, you can say in front of him.”

The Smalljon’s eyes widen before he nods. He looks down to his lap, his fingers relaxing a little. “Princess- “

“Sansa.” She hesitantly lays her hand against Jon’s forearm, trembling. “Please. If we are to be married, I’d prefer you call me Sansa.”

The Smalljon looks shocked for a moment then he quirks his lip in a slight smirk. He looks down to her hand on his arm, his eyes soft. “Of course. _Sansa_.”

Sansa removes her hand from him and clasps her hands together in her lap. She is blushing again, and Sandor’s teeth grind together, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. They are silent for a long while, and Sandor wonders if they are praying.

It is the Smalljon that speaks first. “Sansa.” He clasps her hands within his own, holding them in the space between them. “I wanted to speak with you about our betrothal.” Sansa does not move to meet his eyes. Sandor is starting to feel sick again, wishing that she’d made him leave instead of subjecting him to this torture.

She swallows visibly, and Sandor can tell that the small smile she presents him with is a forced one. Her voice is so soft, barely audible. “What is it that you wish to discuss, Jon?”

Sandor saw him squeeze her hands gently. “I just want you to know…” he begins. He is speaking slowly, his words calculated. His gaze remains on her through it all. “I am very happy about our arrangement. I’m sure you realize that. You are very beautiful and you’re strong both inside and out. I couldn’t have asked for someone better to marry.” _No one compares to Sansa Stark,_ Sandor thinks. Jon is smiling as he looks at their hands, joined together between the both of them. His smile disappears the next instant, though, and now he is looking at her with serious eyes. “I wish _you_ were happy, Sansa.”

Her eyes widen in fear. “I…I am happy, Jo- my lord. Forgive me, please.”

_A lie._ Sandor knows. She’s always been a terrible liar. _And she’s scared._ Sandor steps forward, his hand lightly resting on the pommel of his sword. She turns her head to look at him, her expression calming instantly. _I will not let him hurt you, little bird,_ he relays to her silently, willing her to hear his thoughts through his eyes.

“Sansa.” The Smalljon gently takes her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her head so that she is looking at him again. “You don’t have to lie to me. I won’t hurt you. I know that you’re not happy about this betrothal, and I know that the deaths of those boys upset you. I just…I want you to know that you can confide in me about anything, and I will never betray or use it against you. Please, let me know what makes you sad.” His hand moves up to her cheek in a caress. “I may not be the man that you want or dreamed of, but I hope that you can learn to take comfort in me.”

Sansa is silent, her mouth parted and eyes brimming with tears as she stares at him. She closes her mouth and looks at the face on the heart tree. She shuts her eyes and tilts her head upwards; the tears roll down her cheeks from the corner of her eyes. Sandor feels an intense ache to embrace her, to kiss away her tears.

“Those boys died because of me. It’s all my fault,” Sansa sobs, her voice trembling. “If I had never asked my father to promise me to Joffrey, never gone to King’s Landing, Mother would’ve never set Ser Jaime free, and Lord Rickard would never have killed them.” She covers her face with her hands, crying out loudly, little drops leaking between her fingers and down her wrists. “It’s all my fault. My father dying, the war, all of it.”

_Little bird…_ Sandor moves ever so slightly, ready to take her in his arms. He stops, his heart catching in his throat when the Smalljon pulls her to him in a tender hold, running his fingers through her hair and tracing aimless shapes on her back with his other hand. She is laying against him, her hands gripping the front of his doublet tightly as she nuzzles her face into his chest.

“It’s all my fault,” she weeps, “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault!”

Jon doesn’t say anything, just holds her, and lets her cry. Sandor feels so useless, unable to do anything but stand there, his heart choking him within his throat. Sandor can’t take the scene anymore. He leaves them there, waiting at the entrance of the godswood. It feels like he’s been waiting there for hours, the sun low in the sky, when they finally emerge from the tree line. Sansa’s eyes are dry, though she still has a melancholic expression fixed on her features. She is holding the Smalljon’s arm.

When they approach Sandor, Jon separates from her, his hands on her shoulders as he looks at her. “I enjoyed our time together today, Sansa. Get some rest, and tomorrow will be better for you.” He plants a soft kiss on her forehead before leaving them.

Sansa is quiet again as they walk through the halls back to her room. He feels numb now, his chest which had ached in the godwood now beating with a dull throb. When they get to her room, she enters and moves to close the door. Sandor lifts his hand and blocks it from closing, pushing his way inside and closing the door behind him.

“Sandor?” she rasps, her voice watery from all the crying she’s done.

His hands are on her then. One at her waist, the other wrapped around and resting on the small of her back. He’s staring into the deep azure of her eyes, drowning in the abyss of them. He feels her tremble as his hands travel up to her hair to entangle his fingers within her silky curls. His hands come around to her cheeks, his thumbs caressing the area under her eyes lightly. Her eyes begin filling with tears again at the action. He leans forward, his lips barely ghosting over her own.

Her hands leave her side to rest against his chest, pushing away from him a little. “Sandor. Please, don’t.”

He inwardly cringes at her behavior. A range of emotions conflict inside him. He feels ashamed of himself for being angry with her. After all, she has no choice in the matter of her betrothal. However, he is angry because she is treating him as though he weren’t even a person. Throwing him aside when she has no need of him any longer, after she’s gotten what she wanted. He feels disappointed because he thought she would’ve been better than that. And on top of all that he feels guilty, because she is not his. She has never told him that she feels anything towards him, never strung him along. From the beginning he knew what their relationship was.

_You’re a dog, nothing more. Remember that._

He releases her from his hold, her hands still delicately placed on his chest. He is sure that she can feel how erratic his heartbeat is through the armor, how his blood sears beneath his skin. “Get some rest, _Your Grace_ ,” He growls.

He turns to leave, but she wraps her fingers around his bracer, stilling him in his movement. He does not look at her. “Sandor, why are you angry with me?” she asks, her voice shaky. He does not answer her and pulls his arm out of her grasp. She does not give up so easily, though. She steps in front of him, her hands framing his face and bringing his gaze to hers. She looks desperate, like the weight of entire worlds are on her shoulders, and it just makes him feel worse. “Please, talk to me. I can’t do this alone.”

But he does not, like the stubborn dog he is. He pushes past her, not ungently, and wonders out into the hallway. He’s in desperate need of a drink.

**…**

Sansa sighs as she places a neatly folded dress in her trunk. Lothar Frey had come to Riverrun four days past, on the day Lord Hoster died, to discuss the betrothal of Edmure, now Lord of Riverrun, and Roslin Frey. They were to leave tomorrow, Lord Walder Frey anxious of a long betrothal. Her mother is with her, helping her choose dresses for their travelling, while Sandor stands outside the open door.

It has been hard for Sansa this past moon. Sandor hasn’t spoken to her since she told him of her betrothal to the Smalljon. She wants Sandor desperately, craves his attention, and longs to feel his comfort. But she knows that wouldn’t be fair, to Sandor or Jon. Though she had been wary of Jon at first, she slowly found herself growing a companionship with him, but there isn’t anything more than that. She enjoys laughing with him, talking with him, even his solace is pleasant. However, there is no fluttering in her tummy when she sees him, and her blood never quickens. Not like when she sees Sandor.

She’d tried to summon the Smalljon’s image in her fantasies one night, the pad of her middle finger stroking the bundle of nerves at the top of her womanhood. When she tried to imagine his fingers on her body, Sandor came to mind instead, and she’d found her completion in shame.

Sansa moves to the velvet pillow on her nightstand, a beautiful bronze and black iron circlet resting atop it, white opals encrusted into its surface. Robb had it made for her to wear to court and other great events. She found it uncomfortable to wear, its jagged surface chafing the skin of her forehead terribly, but he would be cross with her if she did not bring it. She places it gently inside her trunk.

“How is Uncle Edmure supposed to marry someone he’s never even met before?” Sansa asked, bored with the silence.

Catelyn answers, “Many betrothals are made without the bride and groom meeting each other.”

“How is he to know if she’ll be pleasing?”

“As he gets to know her during their time together I’m sure he’ll find some attractive qualities about her. Edmure is a kind man, and I’m sure he’ll be gentle with his lady wife,” Cat tells her. “Speaking of, I’ve noticed you spending time with the Smalljon. Has he been treating you well?”

Sansa shrugged. “Thus far he has. He is amiable…” Sansa trails off.

“But…?” Catelyn prompts, sensing her daughter’s hesitation.

“I don’t feel anything for him at all. He’s handsome and kind and I share a companionship with him, though nothing beyond that,” Sansa sighs, “He goes on and on about how happy he is to be promised to me, but I cannot share the sentiment.”

Cat is silent a moment while she picks out another dress for Sansa. “You know, I was betrothed to your father’s brother before him. I loved Brandon, which isn’t very common among betrothals. He was handsome, with his chiseled jawline and brooding grey eyes. When he died I barely had time to mourn him before I’d married Ned.” Catelyn laughs. “I was so disappointed when I’d met your father. But over time I saw the kindness in his heart, and I grew to love him.” She folded a stray lock of hair behind Sansa’s ear. “In time, you will come to know the Smalljon’s heart, and I’m sure you’ll love him for it just as well.”

Sansa knew of her mother’s betrothal to Brandon Stark, but she had not known that Catelyn had been dissatisfied with Eddard. When she was younger, it never occurred to her that her parents had not loved each other before their marriage. _What a stupid naïve child I was,_ Sansa thinks. Though the story does leave her hopeful with her own betrothal, that perhaps she and Jon can indeed have a happy marriage like her parents had.

Though Brandon was dead, allowing her mother to move on without feeling any sort of guilt over the matter. Sandor would be Sansa’s constant companion for the rest of his or her life. Seeing the hurt in his eyes every time she takes Jon’s arm makes her heart throb with dejection. The fact that she wants Sandor instead of her own intended fills her with indignity. Her thoughts go to the late King Robert and her father… Sansa has not even acted on her feelings for Sandor since learning of her betrothal, and it still haunts her with every breath she takes, makes her chest ache as though her heart were breaking every time she gazes upon Sandor’s face. Robert had been rather open about his whoring, and her father had brought home his bastard to raise amongst his trueborn children, disgracing his wife. Sansa wishes her father were here, so she could seek his counsel, learn of how he’d been able to live with himself afterward.

“Sansa, I need to speak with you about your training,” Cat says, her hands behind her back.

Sansa steels herself. “I won’t stop, Mother.”

“I know, it’s not about that,” Catelyn states briskly, “I have grown used to women who fight: Brienne of Tarth, the Mormont women. I’ve come to see the practicality of women knowing how to protect themselves.” Her eyes grow dark. “Especially now, when we’re going to the home of the Freys. We betrayed them, and I know I’m probably overreacting, but I’m…I…” she stammers. She inhales to calm herself before continuing, “I’m worried.”

Catelyn withdraws her hands from behind her and presents Sansa with a sheathed dagger. The handle is wrapped in dark grey leather, moonstones worked into its surface. At the top, the head of a snarling grey direwolf sits with golden topazes for the eyes. When she pulls the dagger out of its sheathe, the blade is straight-edged and at least five inches long. The dark castle forged steel glints in the firelight from the hearth.

“You won’t be able to take a spear into the wedding,” Catelyn says, “Have Clegane teach you how to use it and keep it with you at all times. It’s small enough that you should be able to keep it hidden beneath your skirts.”

Sansa puts the dagger on her bed and hugs her mother around the shoulders. “Thank you, Mother. I’ll keep it with me always.”

Sansa withdraws herself from Catelyn’s embrace, and she holds Sansa’s hands within her own. “We need to stick together, Sansa, now more than ever.” She strokes her thumb gently across Sansa’s cheekbone. “I know that you’re upset with Robb for what he did, but you need to forgive him. Do you remember what your father used to always tell you?”

“The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives,” Sansa answers.

Catelyn nods. “Robb may be your king, but he is also your brother. He only wants what’s best for you.”

“Of course.”

They leave early the next morning, the sun’s rays blocked by thick grey clouds. Her white cloak, now completed, hangs over her shoulders, protecting her from the light drizzle of rain. The black wolfdog’s head looks on in contentment, a small red bird taking flight just in front of him, its beak open in song. When Sandor situated it about her and she showed it to him, his eyes seemed to become cloudy. Though it was gone the next instant.

She keeps the dagger her mother gave her strapped to her calf beneath her skirts. Sandor helps her with learning how to use it. It’s much different than fighting with a spear. Where before it was to her benefit to keep her opponent as far away from her as possible, fighting with a dagger requires more finesse and cunning. She has to find weaknesses while fighting in closer quarters, needing to act faster than she’d had to do with a spear.

Sansa already knew that this journey was to be a long one. The constant downpour of rain causes many of the streams and rivers to overflow, forcing them to take a longer path to the Twins. Their party consists of thirty-five hundred men and women, along with dozens of carts carrying food and equipment and herds of animals following close behind. Sansa often rides with her mother within the main column, but sometimes she rides with the Smalljon at the head of the van. Grey Wind has left her side in favor of his own master. She doesn’t mind so much, but her heart still aches to be separated from him. Though she wears the hood of her cloak above her head, it doesn’t keep her dry. She retires every night cold and wet, her hair and clothes clinging uncomfortably to her face and body.

About three weeks into their journey, the rain lets up a little, allowing the stars to peak out behind the clouds that night. When the maids bring in a tub and hot water for her to bathe at the end of the day, she lets them wash her, too tired to protest. The oil they wash her hair with smells of roses, and when she is done with her bath one of the maids applies a perfume of lily, lemon, and bergamot behind Sansa’s ears, neck, and collar bones. It seems like a lot of work to go through for her just to go to sleep.

“Why are you doing all this?” Sansa asks a maid that begins brushing and braiding her hair.

“Your Grace?”

“Is there something happening tonight that I’m unaware of?”

The maids look at each other skeptically before the one going through her trunk of clothes answers, “The King said that he was having a nameday feast for you tonight, Your Grace. He told us to pretty you up for it.”

Sansa’s eyes widen just slightly. She’s completely forgotten that her nameday is today. She’s been so caught up with everything that’s happened and stressed from travel. She hadn’t even thought that anyone would be in the mood for celebrating, after all their voyage to the Twins is taxing on everyone and a feast will only delay their arrival. Her cheeks flush with color at the thought that Robb is doing this for her. She still has not spoken to him at all, despite her mother urging her to do so. She is glad to see that maybe this is Robb’s way of showing that he’s forgiving her. After all, she had done him wrong as well. She should not have reacted the way she had to being betrothed to the Smalljon. This was simply the way that things had always been done.

The dress they pick out for her is made of a blue cotton fabric with long dagged chiffon sleeves. The neckline leaves her shoulders and clavicle exposed, gooseflesh prickling along her skin from the slight chill in the air. The dress laces up the front with black silk strings and intricate water designs are stitched into the bodice and along the skirts. Little red fish have been embroidered into the fabric of the dress, as well, appearing as though they are leaping from the waves. One of the maids gingerly places and presses the bronze and black iron circlet onto her head, and Sansa’s breath catches in her throat when she sees herself in the mirror presented to her.

_I really am a princess,_ she thinks, feeling like a giddy child. Her thoughts briefly go to Sandor, imagining how he would react when he sees her. Moisture pools between her thighs when she visualizes him pushing her up against a tree and using his mouth to pleasure her as she’d done for him. Then she remembers the Smalljon, and she feels ashamed for thinking of such things.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the voice of her betrothed calling from the entrance of her tent, “Princess, are you ready?”

“Come in,” she calls back. He pushes aside the tent flap and his eyes widen when he beholds her, his mouth hanging open slightly. She blushes from the attention. The maids clear out of the room to give them privacy. She smooths her hands over her skirts and looks up to meet his eyes. “Is there something wrong about my appearance, Jon?”

His lips clamp shut in a tight line, and he shakes his head. “No, of course not. You look…” he trails off for a moment as though he can’t find the words. He finishes with, “…beautiful.”

He steps forward until he is inches away from her. His hand comes up to caress her cheek and slides down to her neck, the pad of his thumb pressing and stroking her throat. She feels self-conscious under his loving gaze and guilty for not feeling the same way as him.

“Jon?” she prompts, her voice trembling. She looks down to his other hand and notices a fluffy bundle within his hold.

He seems to find himself, removing his hand from her neck. He presents her with the pelt of a grey wolf. “I broke away from the vanguard to hunt a few days ago. Your mother said that today is your nameday, and I wanted to give you something that you could sew into your cloak. They say winter is coming, and I don’t want my pretty little bride to be cold.” He releases the strings keeping the pelt rolled together and shakes it out, so she can see. It used to be a rather large wolf she can see, being just a little bit smaller than Jon. She runs her fingers through the fur, feeling of how soft and warm it is. The outline of the head can still be seen at the top of the pelt, its eye holes empty and ears still perked up. Its front paws are so large that they cover her hands and wrists. It looks as though it had been a strong powerful creature before it’d been killed, and she feels almost sad to see it gone.

But she accepts it, graciously. He is right, winter is coming. She’ll need something to keep her warm when it arrives, and the wolf pelt will be a nice addition to her white cloak. She has the Smalljon set the pelt on her trunk, saying that she’ll sew it onto her cloak later. He helps her with draping her cloak about her shoulders and securing it. When she steps out, Sandor looks at her the same way Jon had, and her blush reaches up to her hairline. When she takes Jon’s arm and steps forward ahead of Sandor, she feels a slight tugging on the back of her hair. She bites at her lip, smiling from his unexpected contact.

There is a large tent set up in the center of the camp where the festivities are being held. Long tables are set up on the inside with benches for people to sit. A few lords and ladies are already seated and eating some of the food that’s been prepared for them. Another table is set up at the head of all the others where she and the rest of her family are going to sit, her mother and Robb already seated there. An area in front of the main table has been cleared out so that dancing can be had. A couple bards are seated nearby playing their instruments and singing “The Maids that Bloom in Spring”, their baritone voices deep and rich.

Sansa is given the seat of honor at the head table, Jon sitting down next to her and helping her to remove her cloak. Sandor moves to stand behind her chair, but Robb waves him away. “Go join the revelries, Clegane. She’ll be fine without you for an evening.” Sandor looks to her for permission, and she nods her consent. He moves away from the main table and goes to one of the other tables, taking a seat between Dacey Mormont and Galbart Glover.

The meal that she is presented with is hardly a feast for a royal family, but they have been travelling long and hard with few breaks. Spiced and peppered cheeses, burnt pork sausages, dried apples and vegetables, smoked salmon, molasses sweet wheat bread, and hard-boiled quail eggs make up the bulk of the spread. The main course is a whole lamb that’d been roasted in garlic and herbs over a spit fire, and Sansa marvels at how they’d been able to cook it to such a perfection, grease dripping from its cooked flesh as she bites into it.

A serving girl fills Sansa’s cup with sweet Arbor gold wine, and she drinks it generously. By her third cup, she loses count of how much wine she’s drunk. Her vision becomes loopy and her thoughts muddle together, but she is filled with joy at the festivities around her. She laughs when Jon makes a joke, she talks excitedly with her mother about nonsense, and her brother laughs at how ridiculous she’s acting.

Sansa is absolutely elated when they serve the dessert. A tray of small round lemon cakes is placed in the center of the table, and she picks out the biggest one she can find for herself.

“I had them made before we left Riverrun,” Robb tells her, smiling.

She doesn’t know if it’s the wine or her own sensitivity, but her eyes water from his words. She had not expected him to do any of this for her. _Is this his way of making things up to me?_ She wipes at her eyes with her thumb before lifting the spongy cake to her lips. The cream on the top is a perfect blend between sweet and sour, and the cake is moist and soft as she bites down. It’s like paradise in her mouth, and she can’t help the sound of satisfaction that escapes from her.

She looks over to the Smalljon and notices that his plate is empty. She grabs an extra cake from the platter and tries to give it to him, but he scrunches his nose and shakes his head, “I don’t really like sweets.”

Sansa feels as though she’s been slapped in the face. “You _don’t_ like sweets? Even lemon cakes? Have you ever even tried them?”

Jon laughs at her astonishment, taking a sip of his ale. “No, there are no lemon trees at Last Hearth, and us giants prefer savory over sweet.”

Sansa’s heart is saddened by that. “I hope that will change when we’re married,” she mumbles, and he notices her disquiet. She quickly puts on a smile and holds the cake up to his mouth. “Here, at least try it.”

“You’re going to make me?” he asks, a sly grin on his lips.

“Am I not your princess?” she counters, her eyebrow raising. She inches the cake closer to his mouth. “Open up, you.”

He could easily refuse her, but judging by the look on his face it seems he is enjoying her attentions. Honestly, this is the most playful Sansa’s ever been with the Smalljon, and even she is surprised with herself. Though she is enjoying his company in a friendlier way, rather than the romantic way that he’s probably perceiving it as, she thinks. And she’d never be acting this way if she were clearheaded. He opens his mouth and lets her feed him, taking a miniscule bite of the confection. His face creases in disgust at the taste before swallowing.

A dollop of cream is smeared on his upper lip and in his mustache, and she can’t help herself. She laughs whole heartedly. His eyebrow quirks at her reaction. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing,” She answers between giggles, “Here, just let me…” She trails off as she lifts her thumb to his mouth and wipes the cream from his lip. Without even thinking about it, she _sucks_ the sweetness off her thumb, not breaking eye contact with him. She doesn’t even realize what she’s done until his expression becomes intense as he looks directly at her lips. Her blush is so deep, and she feels embarrassed by how scandalous the action was.

Thankfully, Robb unknowingly saves her from having to continue her conversation with Jon. “Sansa, come dance with me!” Robb lifts her from the chair by her arms and drags her out to the clearing before she can even accept his offer. Lady Maege is dancing with the Greatjon, and her mother is dancing with Lord Jason Mallister, but Sansa can’t seem to locate Sandor within the crowd. Robb takes her by the waist and begins dancing with her, his manner clumsy but she doesn’t mind. She laughs as he spins her around. He holds her close to him, capturing her within a tender embrace, their hands still joined out to the side. “Thank you, Sansa,” he whispers into her ear.

Sansa’s eyebrows furrow. “What for?”

“For not fighting anyone over this marriage to the Smalljon,” he replies, “I know that you didn’t want it, but the North needs this betrothal.” She is silent as they sway together to the music. “If something were to ever happen to me, you would become the Queen in the North and your husband the King, unless Jeyne gives birth to an heir. The northmen would never follow a southern lord, so it had to be a northern lord I promised you to. The Smalljon is a good man, as I’m sure you know, and he’s like a brother to me. So, I wanted to make him my brother in truth.”

She can hear in his voice that he’s torn up about something. She pushes back enough so that she can see his face, and sure enough his face has taken on that serious expression that Sansa finds so familiar. She can see their father in Robb’s likeness, and it makes her teary eyed. “I’m sorry, Sansa. I really am. I never meant for you to find out about it the way you had. I wanted you to get to know the Smalljon first so that it might soften the blow, but maybe it wasn’t right.” She can feel him trembling against her and his adam’s apple bobs anxiously. “I want you to be happy, Sansa. And I miss you. I’m sorry that I drove a wedge between us. Sometimes I find it difficult to differentiate when to be a brother and when to be a king, and I need my sister back. I can’t do this alone, especially without you.”

Sansa’s heart swells within her chest, and the tears that’d been stuck in her eyes spill forth. Her voice is watery as she responds, “I’ll forgive you if you’ll forgive me. I threw wine at you and cursed you to the seventh hell.”

He laughs at that. “I believe your exact words were, _Bugger you to the seventh hell_.” He laughs even harder. “I couldn’t believe you’d said that. Mother was so furious once you’d left and I was left standing there, soaked in wine, thinking, _Who is that and what have they done with my sister_.” She laughs with him, more tears falling from her eyes. Robb’s face softens as he lifts his forefinger to wipe her tears away. “I love you, Sansa. I want you to remember that, no matter what happens.”

Sansa’s eyes widen at his words, and she nods. “I love you too, Robb.” She suddenly feels faint and her legs buckle beneath her.

Robb catches her, and laughs. “Too far into your cups to dance, little sister?” He looks around, his brows furrowing. “It appears your sworn shield is nowhere to be found. Smalljon!” he calls. Jon approaches his king when he’s called. “Take my sister back to her tent. We’ve got a long day of travel tomorrow.”

The Smalljon bows at the waist. “Of course, Your Grace.” Jon goes to grab her cloak from her chair and places it about her shoulders. He offers his arm to her, but she does not take it. Instead she walks ahead of him, and out of the tent, though she can hear his footfalls not far behind her. “Sansa?”

When she makes it outside, the fresh cool air makes her breath catch in her throat and sobers her for just a moment before the world is spinning once again. She hears the sounds of a stream nearby and follows it through the tree line, not wanting to retire to her cot just yet. The ground is soft beneath her feet, still wet from the rain, and the stream that she heard is engorged with water. She looks up to the stars above her and a sense of tranquility overtakes her. She moves to sit down in the grass, but a hand grabs her upper arm, stilling her in her movements. She’d forgotten that Jon is her escort for the evening.

He removes his cloak from his shoulders and lays it down over the grass before allowing her to sit down. Her heart flutters only slightly at the chivalrous gesture, though she knows that it is the wine coursing through her veins that’s causing it. She lays down on top of his cloak, and he lays down next to her as they stare up at the stars.

“We used to stargaze from the battlements at Winterfell,” she says, “Me and my siblings. Maester Luwin tried to teach us constellations, but most of the time we made up our own.” She points to a cluster of stars. “See that? How the stars form a woman with the wings of a dove, holding a lantern? Her name is Dusk, and she flies all over the world to faraway places that have never been explored before. But she can only fly at night when the stars are out to guide her path. The sun blinds her in the morning, and she wonders aimlessly.”

She points to another cluster. “Arya said that constellation looks like a man holding a climbing hook. He climbed the tallest mountains in the world, but when his voyages were done and there were no more mountains to climb, the sky and clouds weighed heavily on his heart.

“And there,” Sansa points to a smaller group of stars, “that’s a bell. Bran said when it rings, the ground will shake, and the Wall will crumble down. And the world will end.” She sighs. She’d rather share this moment with Sandor, and she can’t help but feel sad when she thinks on that.

“You all certainly had vivid imaginations,” the Smalljon says, rolling over on his side to look at her, his head resting on his arm. She turns her head to look at him as well, and her heart trembles with guilt in her chest. _He looks so happy,_ she thinks, _And I’m laying here imagining someone else here with me._

They are looking at each other for a while, not saying anything. She finds herself studying his features for the first time since she’s known him. She knows if she were sober, she would not stare at him so impolitely, but she can’t help it, and she’s beyond caring anymore. The Smalljon’s hair is much longer than Sandor’s and his beard and mustache fuller. His cheekbones are high, and his thick brow hangs over his eyes in a brooding manner much like Sandor’s does. There are slight wrinkles around his eyes from having to squint while looking over the light-reflective snows of the north. He is strong, though not like Sandor. He lacks the animalistic rage that Sandor possesses within him, and Jon would never be able to win against him. She briefly wonders if she’d be able to pretend that he’s Sandor if she closes her eyes on their wedding night when the Smalljon beds her, but she quickly puts that thought to rest, feeling ashamed for thinking it.

She turns her body towards him and lifts a hand to stroke his cheek, the one that would be burnt and scarred if he were Sandor. Her eyes become wet from the feel of the soft, smooth skin there. _I can’t do this,_ she wants to cry out, but she can’t.

Jon’s eyebrows furrow. “What’s wrong?”

She shakes her head and closes her eyes, not wanting him to see her shame and hurt. “Nothing.” She feels his large calloused hand hold her cheek, his thumb smoothing over the area beneath her eye to swipe away a stray tear, and it feels so much like Sandor that she forgets who it is touching her.

The Smalljon’s voice breaks through her thoughts. “Can I kiss you?”

It is a simple question, one that he doesn’t need to ask. He is to be her husband, he can kiss her anytime he wishes to whether she wills it or no, but she appreciates that he’s asking her consent all the same. Sansa simply nods her head, though she does not truly wish to feel his lips against her own.

He pulls her face to his, capturing her lips in a soft chaste kiss. For a moment, she is able to pretend that it’s not Jon she is kissing, until he separates from her.

“That was- “he starts, but she stops him with her mouth before he can shatter her fantasy with reality. Her kiss is harder than the one he gave her. She grasps the front of his leather doublet within her fists and roughly pulls him over her, his arms resting on his elbows on either side of her head. His hand cups the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. His tongue darts out to trace against her lower lip, and she opens her mouth, allowing him to deepen the kiss. Her hand comes up to caress his smooth cheek, and her eyes snap open, remembering who she’s kissing.

She stops moving, and Jon stops kissing her, pulling back away from her, and looking down at her. “Are you alright? Did I hurt you?”

She shakes her head, and he pushes himself away from her, allowing her to stand up. “I should go back to my tent,” she says quickly, turning away from him.

He swiftly gets to his feet, gathering up his cloak. “I can take you back.”

“No, I- “she stammers. Her hands are shaking, and she clasps them together in front of her to still them. “I can get there myself.”

Sansa walks briskly through the tree line, making her way back to camp. The shame and anguish fill her so completely that she can’t help but let out a broken sob. When she makes it back to her tent, she sighs loudly, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“Naughty little bird.”

Sansa gasps and jumps at the sound of Sandor’s voice. She places her hand on her chest and lets out a huff of air to calm herself. Sandor is sitting on the edge of her cot, taking a long pull from his wineskin. She closes her eyes and turns her face to the ground, not in the mood for his games. He stands and makes his way to her. With him so close, she can smell the sour wine on his breath.

“Look at you.” His hand delicately slides up the swell of her hip and into the dip of her waist, and she curses inwardly when her body betrays her and trembles beneath his touch. “Made yourself look pretty for your precious betrothed?” His thumb lightly grazes the side of her breast. “Were you thinking about me while his tongue was shoved down your throat?”

She tries to push his arm away, but he is persistent with his touch. His hand closes around her throat the way the Smalljon had done earlier that night, his thumb stroking along the smooth flesh. “Did you sing him a pretty little song?”

“Stop it,” she says, her hand coming up to grasp his wrist gently. She can feel her body shiver with desire against her will, but she will not let this – whatever it was he was wanting – happen. She swallows hard, looking up at him. “Please, Sandor. Please, stop.”

The wineskin falls from his hand, and he moves to cup her face within his palms. His forehead is roughly pressing against hers, and she braces herself for his kiss, closing her eyes. But it never comes. He is just holding her there, his thumbs crudely caressing her cheeks.

“Little bird,” he rasps, and she is acutely reminded of the night the Blackwater burned, when he’d been illuminated by the green flames of the wildfire, and he’d coaxed a song from her. She reaches to press her palm to his cheek, but there is no sticky blood there this time nor wetness.

_Please, don’t go,_ she’d pleaded to him that night. She thinks that perhaps that night had solidified it in her mind what exactly she felt for him. She’d thought she would never see him again, like she’d felt with everyone she’d ever loved. She couldn’t imagine her life, her world, without Sandor Clegane there to stand with her.

But she will not beg him tonight. She will not be that selfish or cruel.

Abruptly he lets go of her and steps past her to storm out of her tent. She feels empty without him there, but she pushes down the painful feeling blooming from her heart. She silently changes out of her dress before going to bed, Sandor’s touch filling her dreams as she sleeps.

**…**

“Sandor!”

Sansa calling his name brings him out of his wild state. The Smalljon is beneath him, Sandor’s fist bunched up at his collar. Jon’s face is all bruised and bloody from the beating Sandor’s delivered to him. His mind had been completely lost, only feeling how good it felt to batter Jon’s face, how his bones popped from the pounding. Now Sandor is aware of the throbbing ache in his knuckles.

Everything had happened so fast. One moment Sandor had been sparring with Sansa. Then she got agitated when she couldn’t best him, saying _it’s not fair because you’re_ _the strongest man in Westeros_ , which had appealed to his pride strangely. The Smalljon challenged him after that. At first, Sandor wasn’t really fighting him. Anytime Jon attacked him, he’d block or dodge, not wanting to displease Sansa by besting him.

But as the fight drug out, all Sandor could think about while looking at Jon’s face was what he’d done with Sansa the night before. How she’d laid in the grass with him, how she’d _pulled_ him on top of her, and _opened_ her mouth for him. Sandor could feel the deep unyielding fury consume him, and the weight of the blunted sword felt tremendous within his grasp. His swings and thrusts came hard and fast as he laid into the Smalljon, their swords ringing loudly every time they met.

Sandor had been able to shatter the Smalljon’s shield with a few swift movements, and disarmed him in the next. Sandor caught Jon by the ankle and tripped him, sending him back in the mud. Sandor wasted no time in descending upon him, sword abandoned, and laid punch after punch into the Smalljon’s face.

When Sandor is brought back to his senses by Sansa, his fist freezes in mid swing. Oddly, the first person he looks at is her. She looks absolutely terrified, her form completely frozen in fear. Suddenly, big strong hands grab a hold of his shoulders and he’s thrown off Jon and sent tumbling to the dirt.

The Greatjon towers above him. “The fuck is wrong with you, Hound?” he bellows, unsheathing his greatsword.

“Hey!” Robb steps in front of the angered giant, holding his hands up to stop the Greatjon. “I won’t have fighting among my men,” he turns to glare at Sandor as well, “From either of you.”

The Greatjon scowls at Sandor before obeying his king and sheathing his weapon. “If you ever attack my son out of turn like that again, I’ll strangle you with my bare hands. I don’t care if you’re the princess’ sworn shield.” He cocks his head and spits at the ground then turns around to tend to his son. Sandor glances to the side towards Sansa. Her fear is gone now, replaced by that same blank stare she wore in King’s Landing. She turns away from him and goes to the Smalljon, kneeling down next to the beaten man while chirping her courtesies at him, her hand coming up to caress his swollen cheek.

Sandor growls and stands, taking a step forward, but Robb’s hand presses against his chest, stilling him in his movements. “What in the seven hells has gotten into you, man?” Sandor gives the Young Wolf his most fearsome glower and the king is taken aback. “Never mind, I don’t care. Whatever it is, sort it out and let it go. I’ll not have you beating the life out of my men just because you feel angry. That’s not how we do things in the north.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Sandor mumbles, though Robb has already turned away from him. Sandor grumbles and stalks off towards the nearby stream, the sounds of the camp becoming quieter the farther he goes. When he emerges from the tree line and kneels next to the bloated stream, he dips his bloodied hand in the cool water. He winces from the stinging pain that pulses from his knuckles as he rubs the broken raw skin with his other hand. When he hears approaching footsteps, he peeks over his shoulder to see who’s dared to approach him when his rage has not yet dulled.

Sansa stands there, staring at him with her doe-eyed caerulean gaze. Though her fiery hair is done up in a single northern plait down her back and she wears just a simple travelling dress, she still looks more stunning than the Maiden could ever dream to be. And all he can think about is how she is not his. The wrath that has frenzied inside him slowly gives way to a leaden ache.

“Your dear betrothed’s face isn’t so handsome anymore,” he rasps. He goes back to scrubbing at his knuckles.

It is silent for a moment. “It will heal in time. His face was never much appealing to me anyway.” He stops in his washing for just a moment when she says that then goes right back to it. The air is thick with tension, and he can practically feel her trying and struggling to say what she needs to.

“If you’re going to say something then out with it.”

“I need you to look at me,” she says.

“I don’t need to look at you to hear what you say,” he retaliates.

“I will not say anything until you’re facing me.” Her voice is soft yet commanding. “Look at me, Sandor.” He stands, gently patting his hands dry with the dark cloak he wears. When he looks at her she trembles in fear, completely cowering before his horrible stare. “I…I, uh- “

She is stuttering, and he is not in the mood for being kind to her right now. “Are you here to chirp? Or did you come to gawk at the horror of my fucking face?”

Her eyes narrow at him in anger the next instant. “Now, you stop with that,” she fumes, poking his chest with her finger, “You will _not_ interrupt me. And you will _not_ speak to me that way,” she chastises. He moves to turn around, but she tenderly takes his face within her palms and forces him to face her. “Look at me, Sandor. Please, look at me. I need you to know that what I say is true.”

He can feel her pulse beating rapidly within her palms, and her fingers tremble lightly against the skin of his cheeks. Despite the chill in the air, her skin is burning with a hot flame, and he can feel all of her glorious heat. Even his burnt flesh which had lost feeling long ago prickles from her touch. Though he knows that he is giving her that monstrous look she’s always hated, she looks at him with adoring dewy eyes, her eyebrows low and knit together.

“You’re a good man, Sandor Clegane.” He is caught completely off guard by her statement. He looks at her in complete and utter disbelief, but there is no lie that he can find within her gaze. A small smile graces her lips. “You’re fearless. So brave and gentle and…so strong.” A bitter laugh escapes from her and tears slowly fall from her eyes. He can see that she wants to look away from him, to hide the shame her tears bring, but she keeps her eyes locked with his. “You’re- you’re going to make a woman very happy someday, and I’m sure she’ll be very beautiful and caring.”

That same agonizing feeling stings beneath his skin, and he feels himself burning from the inside out. _She can’t be telling the truth,_ his inner Hound seethes from within. _She cries from seeing the hideousness of your face, she can’t even bare to look upon it._

_She is a lying little highborn whore just like every other lady you’ve met, dog. Feeding you scraps beneath the table and making you turn from your true masters, and look where it got you. Pathetically pining after a woman who thinks you less than dirt._ This new voice sounds like Cersei. _Just look at her, she’s putting on quite the act for you. She learned from the best, don’t you think?_

He growls and grasps Sansa about the shoulders, pushing her back until she’s pressed up against a tree. She does not flinch or make a single sound. Instead, her hands come to rest on his chest, and she refuses to avert her eyes. Her confession rattles him to his very core, and he feels the sturdy walls he’d built around himself his whole life come crumbling down in mere moments. His insides twist in despair, his mind telling him how stupid he is to possibly believe her. However, he can see the goodness in the azure depths of her eyes, and that hurts worse. That someone as wonderful as she would even waste her tears on the likes of him.

His hand cradles the back of her head, fingers interweaving with the silky tresses and unravelling her braid a little. His other hand moves down from her shoulder to her waist. She does not push him away or refuse him this time.

“Don’t do it,” he rasps.

Her brows furrow. “What?”

“Don’t marry the Smalljon.” He can feel the Hound tearing his heart apart and threatening to push it from his throat, but he cannot help the flood of emotion that comes spilling out instead.

He closes his eyes and leans down to capture her lips in a searing kiss. His other hand leaves the warmth of her waist to cradle her cheek, and he angles his head to deepen the kiss. He separates from her, gasping for breath. “We can run away, you know? I’ll take you wherever you want: Maidenpool, Braavos, Meereen, fucking Asshai. Just name it, and we’ll go there.”

Her hands leave his chest, and he feels wetness against his thumbs and wrists. When he opens his eyes, she’s covering her mouth, muffled sobs spilling from her and tears leaking from her closed eyes. “I can’t,” she sobs.

His hands come down to rest delicately on her shoulders. “You can.”

She shakes her head vigorously, her braid swaying from the motion. “I can’t.” She fists the fabric of his jerkin and presses her face into his chest. His hands release her, palms open and hovering awkwardly beside her. He does not know if he should hold her or leave her be.

“I want to go home, Sandor,” she whimpers, “I want to go to Winterfell.”

Her words sink in and he feels his heart palpitate painfully from within his chest. If they ever ran, they would truly be the most wanted people in Westeros. Sandor would be hung if they were ever caught, and Sansa would be forced into her marriage and constantly guarded for the rest of her life. The only way for her to get what she wants, to go home as it were, can only be if she marries the Smalljon.

His hands fall limp to his sides, and they stand there for a few more moments before Sansa collects herself.

A sennight later, they finally make it to the Twins. Everything felt off to Sandor the moment they set foot in Frey soil.

First off, Grey Wind had tried to attack the Freys that had been sent out to greet them. Catelyn had to block the direwolf’s path before he’d finally gotten his sense back and returned to his master; Sandor found that very strange. He had not known Grey Wind to attack anyone without being provoked. The most he’d seen the direwolf do is snarl and growl at the ones he did not like. He would not even cross the drawbridge to the castle.

Second, when they went to the great hall to greet old Lord Walder Frey, he hardly seemed upset with what Robb had done. In fact, he seemed somewhat well-mannered, something that Sandor knows that the Lord Frey is not known for. However, one thing had stuck in Sandor’s mind that happened after the audience.

Lord Walder had asked Sansa to allow him to kiss her hand. She had been wearing her cloak, now befitted with the pelt of a grey wolf. The paws of the pelt had been buckled around her wrists so the fur covered her arms and with the hood up – which had the head of the wolf sewn on – she looked like a wolf in truth. When he laid what looked like a disgustingly wet kiss on her hand, she faughed and jerked her hand out of his touch. She’d quickly realized her error and chirped her courtesies.

Later, as Sansa took a walk through the castle with Sandor shadowing her, Black Walder approached her.

“What do they call you?” he asked as a greeting.

Her eyebrows raised slightly in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

“They call your brother the Young Wolf, I’m only wondering what they call you,” he replied. “You look like a fish, but you’re untamed like a wolf.”

Her expression was steel. “They call me Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“I believe the Red Wolf would be more suitable.” He abruptly grabbed her wrist and jerked her toward him. “We Freys might not know how to tame a wolf, but we can break a wolf just as well,” he threatened pulling her closer, so her face was only inches away from his. “Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?”

Sandor pulled his little bird from him, as gently as he could, and pushed Black Walder against the wall. His hand was clasped around the Frey’s throat, and he unsheathed his sword. “We Cleganes might not know how to collapse a tower, but we can kill everyone inside it slowly and painfully just as well.” His grip tightened slightly. “Do you want to be killed slowly and painfully, Black Walder?”

“Sandor,” Sansa breathed, “He did not hurt me. Let’s continue our walk.”

And just like that she’d brought him back.

He watches Sansa dance with some Frey boy, the melancholic tune of “Alysanne” regaling from the band, though it is being played rather terribly. Still, even now during the wedding feast the next day, that encounter is replaying in Sandor’s thoughts. It’s the reason why he’s been keeping a closer eye on her. It’s the reason why he hasn’t sat down even once. It’s the reason why he hasn’t taken a single sip of alcohol all night. _Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?_

No matter what, he cannot seem to determine what exactly about the statement has gotten him so adrad. He knows that it isn’t that Black Walder had threatened Sansa. He knows the reason why the encounter had occurred was because of the way she’d reacted to Lord Walder’s kiss on her hand during the audience. No, it is the way he’d said it that has Sandor all tied up in knots over it.

_Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?_

The Greatjon belches loudly as he downs another mug of ale, Merrett Frey slamming down his own mug. The sight only makes Sandor more anxious. Though he hates to admit it, the Greatjon is probably even stronger than Sandor and having him sober in case anything went wrong would be helpful. Sandor looks over to the table where Robb’s seat is designated, pleased to see that the Smalljon and Robin Flint are neither drunk nor drinking. From what he’s observed, Patrek Mallister and Dacey are also sober.

Sansa is well into her cups, though, laughing and smiling prettily even as the ugly boy she’s dancing with steps on her foot. Despite the drab appearances and feelings the wedding invokes, she seems to be having a good time. Sandor chuckles to himself while she gets passed on to Patrek when “Flowers of Spring” begins echoing through the halls. She is blushing something fierce, whether from wine or Patrek’s handsome face, Sandor’s not sure. But he can’t help but get caught up in her elegancy, the blue dress she’d worn on her nameday swaying about as she’s twirled. The circlet she wears glints in the light like a dark halo.

_Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?_

As the song fades out and Patrek releases her from his hold, Sansa locks eyes with Sandor. Her smile seems to amazingly become wider, and her eyes are sparkling. She hooks her finger in a come here motion, silently asking him to come dance with her. He lets out a sad sigh and hesitantly shakes his head. He always finds it difficult to refuse her, but he is no good at dancing and definitely won’t attempt it in front of all these people. Her brows furrow in confusion, but she squeals out a delighted laugh as the Greatjon takes to the floor and lifts her into the air. The inspiring notes of “Iron Lances” drift through the air, but the Greatjon is belting out the lyrics for “The Lusty Lad” which only serves in making her giggle more.

_Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?_

When she is safely grounded, her hands delicately grasp the Greatjon’s and pulls them away from her. She says something to him that Sandor can’t make out, and she leaves him to retrieve her cloak from her seat. She is clumsily trying to clasp it about her shoulders when she approaches Sandor.

“I could use a bit of air; it’s a bit warm in here,” she gasps. Sandor gently pries her hands away from her brooch and proceeds to properly attach the cloak around her. When he turns to follow her out of the hall, Sansa takes his arm before he’s even offered it, and it makes his stomach flip not unpleasantly.

They do not speak as they walk through the halls towards the outside, though she is giggling madly, and it’s infectious because he starts to chuckle as well even though he is not inebriated. When they are far away from the great hall, Sansa separates from him, glancing around their surroundings. Sandor stops with her, looking at her curiously.

_Do you want to be broken, Lady Sansa?_

When she is satisfied with whatever she’s discovered, she takes one of his hands and places it at her waist. He pulls back instinctively. “What are you doing, Little Bird?”

“Come, Sandor, dance with me,” she says. “No one is here. No one to laugh or jeer at you if you make a mistake.”

She replaces his hand, though he is still tentative. “Sansa, I’m…I don’t really know how.”

“Oh, that’s alright,” she reassures, “It’s not too difficult, and I can teach you.” She holds her hand out to him, and he takes it nervously. When she takes the first step, he looks down to watch their feet, but she pushes his chin up gently so that he is looking at her. “No, no, don’t look down. You lead me, and I’ll follow. I know that there’s no music right now, but feel your own rhythm.”

He had not even noticed that there is only silence, save for the raucous revelries happening throughout the castle and across the grounds. As he starts to move his feet to a beat that he has invented in his head, he gazes into the deep crystalline of Sansa’s eyes, surprised by what he finds there. Strangely, her expression is almost like the night when she’d come to his room in Riverrun and touched herself, though without the lust or desire darkening her eyes. Something different – intimate.

_A right cunt you are, dog. Just like that fool Florian,_ he thinks, _it’s only the wine that has her looking at you like that._

Still, he can’t ignore the sensation that fills him from having his arm around her waist and her hand on his shoulder. With stiff grace, he finds that dancing isn’t quite so arduous as he’d originally thought. He glides with her across the stone, forgetting completely about everything that’s going on. The wedding is over. The Lannisters are no longer a looming threat. The Smalljon, Black Walder, they do not exist. Only Sandor and Sansa are present within this moment.

The roaring instruments from the great hall come back to life as the musicians play “The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown”, breaking them out of their trance and bringing them crashing down to reality. Sansa blinks a few times, shaking her head and clearing her throat.

“What do you think of Dacey Mormont?” she asks suddenly.

He is confused with her line of questioning, but he answers her all the same, “She’s strong for a woman.” He does not really have much else to say about Dacey, having never truly spoken to her.

Sansa nods in understanding. “What about Alys Karstark? Have you ever met her?”

Sandor squints his eyes dubiously at her. “What’s this all about?”

“It’s nothing really,” Sansa fibs, though she shakes her head and corrects this, “It’s quite silly, but I only thought to suggest women to you that you might like.”

He smirks slightly. “You trying to set me up with someone, Little Bird?”

“Well, yes. I want you to be happy. Even if…” she trails off, seemingly losing herself, “…even if it’s not with me.”

They stop swaying, and he holds her hands in between them. “There are two problems with what you’re trying to do.” She furrows her eyebrows, and he continues, “One, the women you named to me are not only highborn but firstborn women of their northern households. And I’m the second son of a minor southern house.”

She catches his meaning and blushes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking, was I?”

“The other- “he can feel his throat becoming dry, and his lungs struggling for air. He gulps and says, “- how could I ever be happy with anyone else other than you?”

She gasps lightly and peaks up at him from her lashes, the somber sounds of “The Rains of Castamere” fluttering through the hall. “Oh, Sandor,” she sighs.

“Wait,” he harshly whispers. He hadn’t even fully registered what song is playing and where they were, having lived with Lannisters for a good chunk of his life. He knows “The Rains of Castamere” note for note, word for word even if the lyrics aren’t being sung. And he knows where they are right now and why this song being played at this very moment is a bad thing.

“Sandor?” she gently squeezes his hands, trying to recapture his attention as he looks around the hallway. She doesn’t even realize what’s happening.

His stomach twists within his throat when he hears the distant sounds of a fight.

“Little Bird, we have to go,” he rasps, grabbing ahold of her upper arms and pushing her towards the other end of the hallway.

“What do you mean?” she laughs, “I saw the servers bringing lamb cuts into the hall before we left, and the food’s been so terrible all night. Why don’t we go try some?”

“You don’t understand, Sansa; we need to leave right now,” he says more insistently through grit teeth.

He pulls her behind him from her arm until they make it to the end of the hall. Just as they are about to round the corner, three men in Frey surcoats meet them at the same time, stopping them in their escape.

“Lady Sansa?”

“Yes?” she answers.

“Come with us, my lady. Lady Catelyn requires your presence in the great hall.”

Sansa moves closer to Sandor’s side, squinting at them suspiciously. “Why would my mother send you to get me?”

“Please, my lady. She has urgent business with you.” The guard that speaks moves to grab her, but Sandor unsheathes his sword and positions himself in front of her, his arm snaking around her body protectively.

“You won’t fucking touch her,” Sandor says as the guards unsheathe their weapons as well.

The same guard reaches for her again, and Sandor arcs his sword and cuts off the man’s arm at the elbow. While the man screams in agony, Sandor backhands him, sending him sprawling to the floor. He ends the man’s life by stabbing and twisting his blade straight through the chest, the bone of the guard’s sternum and spine crunching as the point is driven through until it scrapes the stone of the floor.

The second man points his blade at Sandor defensively. He encloses his hand around the blade, feeling the bite of the steel in the skin of his palm. He is able to pull the sword out of the man’s grasp effortlessly, throwing it far to the side. He grabs the guard around the throat and lifts him, squeezing as the man punches his wrist to no avail. Sandor keeps squeezing until the man’s neck snaps, head falling limply to the side. Sandor throws him down as if he were a doll.

He just barely sees when the third guard grabs Sansa by the wrist and pulls her towards him. With catlike swiftness, she lurches forward, pulling her skirts up and drawing her dagger expeditiously out of its sheathe. She expertly buries her blade in the side of his neck, slicing flesh and muscle and leaving a thick gash across his throat. Blood spurts from the wound, covering her entire sleeve and spraying on her face. The man gurgles and chokes on his own blood as she releases the dagger and it clatters to the floor.

Sansa is staring down at the man with wide eyes, her hands shaking and coming up to cover her mouth. He catches her when she stumbles backwards on wobbly feet, though she does not faint. She staggers forward as though she might vomit, but she gulps audibly, bending down to retrieve her dagger and putting on her mask of steel.

“We need to go back for Mother and Robb,” she says.

She takes a step down the hall, but he reaches for her and takes her arm in his grasp, stilling her movements. “They’re already lost, Little Bird.”

She turns to him, eyes widened. “What? No, I don’t believe you. I refuse to.”

He holds her shoulders and turns her so that she is facing him. “Look around you, Sansa,” he says, gesturing to the carnage at their feet. “Do you hear the battle outside? Do you remember how many Freys were in the great hall? They would’ve already killed every Stark in that room.”

“I can’t leave them behind,” she sobs, shaking her head as a few tears cascade down her face.

“Listen to me, Little Bird.” He gently cups her face in his hands, keeping her gaze steady with his. “We can’t do anything for them now. You are Robb Stark’s heir, and we need to escape and get you to safety. Do you understand?”

She closes her eyes, the tears still managing to fall from beneath her lids. Her hand shakes as she wipes her cheeks, opening her glossy eyes to stare up at him. “Yes.”

Sandor looks around him to assess the situation while she lifts her skirts to deposit her dagger into its scabbard. One of the guards they’d killed is wearing a long silver cloak, the blue twin towers of the crossing emblazoned upon it. It is stained with the dead man’s blood, but during a battle no one would take much notice to it. Sandor turns the guard over so that he can undo the ties holding the cloak together.

He secures the cloak about his shoulders and pulls the hood up to hide his face. “Come on,” he says, holding Sansa’s arm just above her elbow. “We need to get to the stables and find Stranger.”

The journey from inside the walls of the castle to the stables is one of the most unnerving things he’s ever been through. He is acutely reminded of when he and Sansa escaped King’s Landing during the Battle of the Blackwater. Much like back then, they don’t run into any soldiers during their trek. They are all too busy slaughtering the Stark men outside. The courtyard is blessedly abandoned when they finally make it, the chill of the night air hitting his face. The smell of burning only serves to make him more anxious, but he will not let his fears take control of him.

Not while his little bird needs him.

The stall that Stranger is being held in is unlocked. When Sandor slides the door open, Stranger whickers nervously, stumbling about the small pen and jerking his head around anxiously. Sandor gently takes the horse’s muzzle in his hand, his other coming up to stroke Stranger’s neck as soothingly as he can in the situation. As he begins saddling the horse, he looks around to gauge the situation and make sure Sansa is still with him.

She is nowhere within his sight, though. He leaves the stall and finds her at the end of the stables, pulling on a lock attached to the last hutch and banging on the door. From the vicious growls emanating from the other side, he knows that it’s Grey Wind that’s trapped inside. Sandor approaches the door, gently pushing Sansa out of the way, and uses his whole body to try to break down the door. It’s no use, though; the door is too fortified.

The sound of approaching footsteps catches his attention, and he grabs Sansa by the wrist, pulling her into Stranger’s stall and sliding the door closed. Sansa whines and struggles against him to get free, but he is strong enough to bring her to the ground and hold his hand over her mouth, wrapping an arm around her to keep her pressed against him. He hears the men outside pass by Stranger’s door and a ferocious snarl from Grey Wind in the last stall. Sansa is desperately clawing at his wrist; she even bites him hard enough to draw blood from his fingers, but he does not release her.

The sound of crossbow bolts being released and Grey Wind’s pained yelp sends sickening chills down Sandor’s spine, and he feels his stomach churning from the bile threatening to escape from him. Sansa’s writhing has stopped, and she is now sagging against him. When he looks down at her, he realizes she’s fainted. It feels like an eternity as he waits for the men to leave.

He delicately lays Sansa down in the stall’s bedding and ever so slowly slides the door open enough for him to check to see if the coast is clear. Once he’s sure that there is no one there, he slides the door open the rest of the way. He lifts Sansa over his shoulder and leads Stranger out of the stall by his reins. He clumsily places Sansa in the saddle and mounts behind her, using his cloak to cover her body as much as he can.

His breathing comes more erratically as they cross the drawbridge to the battlefield. Men are running all over the field chaotically, and he doesn’t even know who is an ally and who isn’t. Almost every tent in the vicinity is aflame and the smell from the carnage is so awful that it makes his stomach turn from nausea. He’s ashamed of the intense fear that suddenly consumes him, making his body tremble and sweat profusely. During the Battle of the Blackwater he’d run away from the fire, not towards it.

Sansa stirring within his embrace breaks him out of it, pulling his mind back to what needs to be done. He takes a deep breath and looks around for something that can help them escape. A lone Frey banner is sticking out of the ground, its wielder laying dead on the ground. Sandor takes the pole within his grasp, jerking it out of the dirt.

No matter where he turns there’s fire, scorching the earth with its all-consuming path. Men and women are running in all directions, screaming so much so that it’s hard for him to comprehend where to go, how to leave. He pulls Sansa tighter against him.

“HERE COMES THE KING IN THE NORTH, THE KING IN THE NORTH, THE KING IN THE NORTH!” he hears being chanted behind them. He turns the horse, half hoping that somehow Robb had fought his way free and was coming to change the tide of the battle like he’d done so many times before.

What he sees instead completely disturbs and disgusts him beyond understanding. Even he, who has killed more people than he can count or remember in numerous fashions, is revolted by the vile sight of Robb Stark’s body, his head decapitated and defaced by the head of his own direwolf. He is so transfixed that he does not even notice Sansa wake.

When she sobs, he turns the horse around and gallops off, but she’d already seen. He spends the rest of the night listening to her cry and directing Stranger through the trees, in whichever direction gets them farther from the Twins.

“I’ll make them pay,” Sansa cries. “For everything they’ve done to my family, I’ll make them suffer. The Lannisters, The Freys, all of them.”

**…**

They’d been riding for three days when they came across the inn. That first night, Sansa had done nothing but cry for hours, didn’t even sleep. Any food that Sandor offered, if he found any, she’d refused. The first time, he’d allowed it. The second time he did not relent until she’d at least taken a bite of one of the spring onions he’d collected. She’d wolfed down every scallion he gave her after that, not realizing how extremely famished she was. Even as fat tears rolled down her cheeks, she ate and ate until there was no more.

The next day, she would not even stand from where she was laid down. She did not move as Sandor tended to Stranger or as he ate. When he’d returned from relieving himself, she was still lying right where she’d planted herself the night before. Even as Sandor nudged her and told her to get up, she would not even twitch. Just staring blankly beyond the trees, towards the Twins. The night before, she’d vowed that the Freys and Lannisters would pay for the sins they committed on her family. Now, all she could think about was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to her mother and Robb, what they’d looked like, trying desperately to etch every single detail into her memory. She had not even thought of the Smalljon during the massacre, but now that she was able to think she mourned the loss of him. Though she didn’t love him, he was a dear friend, and they could have had a happy life together.

A part of her wished that she would’ve died with them at the Twins instead of running away like a coward. She’d desperately wanted to believe that she would’ve done everything, _anything_ to save them. She would’ve killed every last Frey in order to keep them alive. However, killing just one of them had sickened her so terribly that she’d almost retched. She didn’t understand why Sandor loved the act so much, didn’t see the appeal in it like Joffrey had. Plunging that knife into the man’s neck, feeling it tug and break through tendon and muscle, _hearing_ it, watching as the life drained from his eyes and knowing that she was the reason why filled her with such a terror that she thought she’d never known.

Sandor was forced to carry her to the horse, realizing that there was nothing he could do to make her move.

The day they found the inn, she didn’t feel anything. She had no interest in wherever they were going, never asked Sandor or told him which direction to go. She’d just completely given up on everything. Her Aunt Lysa lived in the Vale of Arryn and didn’t want any part in the war, content to just stay in her castle and hide. Her bastard brother Jon Snow was at the Night’s Watch, but they would never let her take shelter there. The Night’s Watch never took part in any of the politics of the world. Arya was gone, alive or dead Sansa didn’t know. Winterfell was surely lost now, whether the Ironborn still held it or some other house. No one would ever follow her if she were to try and raise an army like Robb had. She was merely a woman with the Stark name, and she had no battle experience or leadership skills required to rule over a people.

She felt, and perhaps in many aspects she was, completely and utterly alone.

When they come upon the inn and see the horses with blankets displaying the Frey sigil on their backs, Sansa’s blood quickens and boils to the point it almost physically hurts her. She pushes off Stranger in one fluid motion and walks briskly towards the small inn. Sandor is right in front of her in seconds, blocking her path.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he asks, placing his hands on her shoulders.

“What I’m doing is none of your concern,” she says.

“You haven’t said or done anything for three fucking days,” he growls, “It is my fucking concern whenever you decide to waltz into an inn full of your enemies. I’m your sworn shield; my job is to protect you.”

“Then I release you from your vows, you are free to leave if you so choose,” she says, shrugging his hands off her, “But don’t you dare prevent me from my justice.”

Sandor visibly flinches at her words, but he does not move or make to leave her be. He glances around at their surroundings and swiftly takes off the silver Frey cloak that he’s still wearing. He drapes it across her shoulders over her own cloak, tying it off in the front. He also removes the black iron circlet from her head and walks to Stranger to place it in the saddlebags.

“We might as well be smart about this,” he reasons, running a hand through his hair so that the most of his scars are covered.

After tying Stranger off outside, they enter the inn. The warmth from the hearth slaps her in the face as she enters, but it is welcomed after so long in the damp cold of the riverlands. There are a few wooden tables set up in the dining area. The first that Sansa takes notice of is the table occupied by four Frey soldiers, drinking wine and laughing and talking loudly amongst themselves. One of them has a lute and is playing “Bessa the Barmaid”. A serving maid is sitting on one of their laps, looking extremely uncomfortable and her back taut.

On the table beside theirs sits a beautiful exotic-looking woman, the likes of which Sansa has never seen before. She is dressed in leathers and a brown shawl is draped and pinned about her shoulders. Her tanned skin glows in the firelight, and her lips are so plump and full that Sansa is sure that men must find kissing her very enjoyable. Her dark almond-shaped eyes are piercing and sullen as she stares into the hearth, taking a sip from the flagon in her hands. Beneath one of her eyes, what Sansa thought were moles or freckles at first, are in fact three small teardrops tattooed into her skin. Her thick black hair is plaited loosely. One of the Frey men calls for her to join them at their table, but she scoffs at them, muttering something in a language that Sansa doesn’t understand.

“Go find a table. I’ll speak with the innkeeper,” Sandor tells her.

She takes a seat at one of the tables towards the front door, just incase they need to make a quick escape. A few moments later Sandor joins her, sitting down across from her with his back to the Freys. The innkeeper, an older man with a long grey beard and leathery skin, places two small meat pies on the table and two flagons of a dark thick liquid. Sansa brings the mug to her lips and takes a small sip. When she tastes the sweetness from the drink she tips the flagon back, taking a larger drink. Sandor looks at her strangely as she guzzles down the drink as if it were water, but does not say anything. She delicately breaks her pie open to eat, not realizing how starving she is until the exquisite aromas waft to her nose. Though the meat pie is a little burnt, the garlic helps offset the bitterness, and Sansa tucks into it rather unladylike.

Sansa’s eyes widen slightly when a young man comes down the stairs in the back of the dining area, and she almost drops her spoon. _A northman,_ she thinks. His dark hair is short and messy, but his eyes are dark and brooding much like her brothers’ and father’s. The leathers he wears are much like what the men at Winterfell wore. He looks a little older than Robb, though his beard is no more than stubble across his jawline and around his mouth. A long thick blade is strapped to his back, and Sansa marvels at how he’d be able to wield such a sword with his skinny arms. When he sees the Frey soldiers, his face distorts for a moment before setting into his previously serious expression. He takes a seat at a table in the very back of the room.

The serving maid stands from the soldier’s lap to go attend to the young man, but the Frey soldier grabs her around the wrist. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Please, Ser,” she says, her voice quivering, “I have to serve him.”

“You won’t be serving no one unless I says so,” he says. He raises his hand and backhands her across her cheek. At her yelp, the exotic woman stands from her seat, knocking the bench over in the process. She unsheathes the shortswords attached to her hips, one in each hand. She is yelling something in her coarse, harsh language which Sansa cannot place.

“Ser!” the innkeeper exclaims, coming out from behind the counter and kneeling. “Please, have mercy. She’s a good girl.”

Before the situation can escalate any further and Sansa loses her chance, she stands. “Excuse me, Ser, but can you sing me a song?”

The man with the lute looks at her with a raised brow before smirking. “Anything for you, beautiful. If you’ll sing for me afterwards, of course.”

_The only man I’ll ever sing for is Sandor._ “Of course.”

He turns more towards her, his lute at the ready. The serving maid has slipped out of the other man’s grasp and scurried off to the innkeeper, who embraces her and tends to the wound on her cheek. The exotic woman is squinting at Sansa, glancing suspiciously between her and the bard.

“Is there a particular song you’d like to hear?”

Sansa moves to stand in front of him, her flagon clasped in her hands. “Will you sing “The Rains of Castamere”? It’s a beautiful song despite its morbidity, wouldn’t you agree? It’s been stuck in my head for a few days now.”

“Whatever m’lady commands.” He lifts his fingers to the strings of his lute and begins to play. She sips on her drink sparingly as he sings:

_And who are you, the proud lord said,_  
_that I must bow so low?_  
_Only a cat of a different coat,_  
_that's all the truth I know._  
_In a coat of gold or a coat of red,_  
_a lion still has claws,_  
_And mine are long and sharp, my lord,_  
_as long and sharp as yours._  
_And so he spoke, and so he spoke,_  
_that lord of Castamere,_  
_But now the rains weep o'er his hall,_  
_with no one there to hear._  
_Yes now the rains weep o'er his hall,_  
_and not a soul to hear._

As he sings the final words of his song, Sansa lifts her flagon over his head and unceremoniously pours the drink over his head. Before the man can fully comprehend what she’s done, she smashes the cup in his face, shattering it within her palm. She unties the silver cloak and shrugs it off her shoulders, pulling the hood of her white cloak over her head.

“In the name of Robb of the House Stark, First of His Name, King in the North and of the Trident, Lord of Winterfell, the Young Wolf,” she lifts her skirts, unsheathing her dagger, “I, Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and Queen in the North and of the Trident, sentence all of you to die.”

As the bard tosses his lute to the side and reaches for his sword, Sansa grabs the scruff of hair at the nape of his neck, pulling his head back and stabbing him right beneath the chin. The sound of him choking and drowning in his own blood makes Sansa sick to her stomach, but she wouldn’t let it bother her. Even as the hot blood gushes from the wound, down the hilt of her knife, and onto her hand. When she jerks her dagger out of him, he falls back against the table, his hands coming up to unsuccessfully cover and close the wound.

The woman with the dual-swords dashes forward so fast that Sansa almost misses it. She swings her blades as the Frey man she’s attacking brings up his shield to block her attacks. Right, left, right, left, right. It gives her opponent enough time to withdraw his own sword from its sheathe and thrust towards her, though she’s able to narrowly miss its cut. He bashes her in the face with his shield causing her to cry out, and Sansa winces from the sight. Her full lips are dripping with blood, and her expression shifts to something terrifying as she brings a knuckle up to wipe her lip clean. She’s a blur as she pummels into him with her swords. Her fighting style is so animalistic, so berserk that Sansa can hardly keep up. And neither can the soldier that’s dueling the raven-haired woman. When he thrusts forward for another blow, she pushes his sword away with both of her own. She stabs him right in the gut, upwards towards his lungs.

“Your Grace!” the northman yells.

Sansa does not even notice another of Frey’s men running towards her with his blade drawn. She sees Sandor in the edge of her vision rush forward with catlike quickness and feels him tighten his fist around her wrist, effectively pulling her out of harm’s way. The northman barrels into the soldier, sending him flying backwards. When he unsheathes the greatsword from the scabbard on his back, Sansa knows that the blade is far too heavy for him. He can hardly hold the sword up with both his hands on the pommel, his back hunched forward from its weight. He pushes the point of the blade down into the fallen man’s stomach.

The fourth Frey, realizing that he’s greatly outnumbered, makes a break for the door, desperate to escape his imminent demise.

“Oh no, you don’t,” Sandor snarls, grabbing the man by the back of his shirt and flinging him back towards her. When he is on his knees in front of her, Sandor grabs him by the hair and forces him to look up at her. He unsheathes his sword and positions the edge of his blade at the man’s throat. “Do you want to kill him, or do you want me to do it?”

_The man who passes the sentence should swing the sword._ “I’ll do it.”

The man cackles as Sandor sheathes his weapon. “You may kill me, but you’ll never escape what’s coming for you. When Roose Bolton finds you, he’ll give you to his bastard son and he, along with all his soldiers and dogs, will fuck you until there’s nothing left.” He spits at her feet. “You’ll go mad just like your whore mother. I heard she clawed her own eyes out and howled like a bitch in heat before Raymund cut her throat out. They said she looked so lovely when they stripped her body down and threw it in the river. I would’ve given anything to see- “

Before he can even finish his statement, Sansa brings her dagger to his throat. Her cut is long and deep, so deep that she can feel the bone of his spine scraping against the edge of her blade. As he gargles on his own blood, Sandor pushes him over, leaving him twitching on the floor.

She turns to the innkeeper and the serving girl where they are cowering behind the counter. “I’m sorry we ruined your inn. We’ll clean it up and be on our way as quickly as possible.”

They slowly peer out, looking at the carnage that lay before them. Once they realize who the victors are, their fear seemingly disappears and instead look relieved. _What a strange thing,_ Sansa thinks, _but look at what I’ve done. Oh, gods, what have I done?_

The serving girl kneels low in front of her. “Thank you kindly, Your Grace. I…I feared what they would do to me if you’d not stepped in.”

Sansa wants to respond so desperately, but all she can see are the dead men around her. She can feel her knees quivering beneath her and her breath quicken ever so slightly as her throat closes up.

“Please, Your Grace, stay the night here,” the innkeeper joins in, kneeling in front of her as well. “I can’t let my daughter’s saviors be left out in the cold. I housed your kin’s men here on their journey south to defend the riverlands, some before the wedding. Who knows what those men would’ve done if you were not here.”

She can feel her dagger becoming slippery within her grasp from either blood or sweat, and she knows she should sheathe it, but she can’t make herself move. Even as she opens her mouth to speak she cannot make a sound. The foreign woman squints at her a second before a look of understanding overtakes her features.

“Little Bird.”

She turns to Sandor and suddenly her world is still again, feet planted firmly to the spot. She is the Queen in the North. She must not break in front of her people. “If it wouldn’t be too much to ask, it would please me very greatly to stay here,” she says.

“Would you like me to bring you a tub and hot water?” the serving girl asks rather quickly.

Sansa finds herself at a loss for proper social interactions for the moment. She had not expected them to be so grateful to her, especially after what she’d just done. “Well, I…At least let me help clean up this mess.”

Sandor places his hand on her shoulder. “You have to rest; I’ll take care of the mess down here.” After finding out which room is theirs, Sandor leads her up the stairs and at the end of the hall to their room. It’s a small room with only a table and a single bed, but Sansa will not complain. A lantern is seated on the table to light up the room. Sandor checks beneath the bed and looks out the singular window in the room before turning back to her. “I’ll be back after a while. You can go to sleep or wait up for me, but don’t leave this room.”

And he’s gone. For a moment she just stares blankly out the window, at the ever-growing indigo sky. Though there is still some pink in the sky from the not-quite-set sun, small stars have started to peak through the blanket of the sky. When she hears a knocking on her door, though, the sky is now completely dark, the stars and moon illuminating the earth below it.

When she opens the door, the serving girl brings in a tub and leaves only to return a few moments later with hot water. Once the tub is full, she leaves Sansa with a bow. Sansa has not even begun to unlace her dress when there is another knock on the door. Wondering if the serving girl had forgotten something, she opens the door.

However, it is the foreign woman who is waiting on the other side, carrying folded clothes in her hands. “ _M’ath_ ,” she says in way of greeting.

Sansa furrows her brows. “Uh, hello?”

“You need bath, yes?” she asks. Her accent is different from any of the Westerosi accents Sansa’s heard. It reminds her of Shae’s though it is most definitely different. Sansa sighs. _I miss Shae._

“Yes,” Sansa answers.

“I brought you this clothes.” She glances past Sansa into her room. “I can help with the washing?”

Sansa understands why she’s here. “Oh, no. I can wash myself.”

She looks a bit disappointed from the refusal, but she still holds the folded clothes out to Sansa. “At least take this. Is gift from me. You not want travel in dirty clothes, no?” She places the bundle in Sansa’s waiting hands. She clears her throat before continuing, “I ask to ride with you tomorrow, Queen.”

Sansa’s breath catches in her throat. “What do you mean?”

“Were they your first kills?” the raven-haired woman asks.

_She means the Frey soldiers downstairs._ Sansa’s face softens, and she nods. “The second and third ones, respectively.”

The other woman nods in understanding. “I am Allayi. I came from Yunkai. Before that, the Dothraki Sea.”

She pauses, allowing Sansa to give her the same courtesy. “I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell.”

“You are Queen in north. You will be going to north, yes? It is long road ahead, and I want to help.”

Sansa hugs the clothes against her chest defensively. She will not trust a stranger so willingly. “Why do you want to help me?”

“The _shierak qiya_ brought me to you,” she answers.

“The what?”

Allayi points up towards the ceiling. “I not know the word. The bleeding star.”

Sansa furrows her brows. She had not expected that answer. “I don’t understand. The red comet lead you to me?”

“I- It is…very strange- but I speak truth, Queen. I had dream of you when _shierak qiya_ broke the heavens!” She holds her hands out in front of her as though she were begging. “Please, if you not believe me, take me to protect you, Queen.”

Sansa can hardly say no to that offer. She’ll need all the help she can get if she wants to survive. Though she still has her misgivings, Sandor will be there to shield her should this woman prove to be untrustworthy. And Sansa knows how to protect herself as well. “You may come with us if you wish.”

Allayi places her hand on her chest, bowing slightly. “You do me great honor, Queen. I will not fail you.”

Before Sansa can respond, Allayi turns to go to her own room. Sansa quietly shuts the door, making sure to put the bolt in place. She unfolds the clothing that Allayi brought her. The dress is made from a soft blue linen with long sleeves. The skirt is not as full as the dresses she’s used to, but it flows through her fingers as though it were silk. There are black ties on the back for lacing the dress. It is definitely a simple dress, but Sansa does not mind.

The second article of clothing has Sansa blushing wildly as though she’d just finished sparring with Sandor. It is a shift, she’s sure for it is so promiscuous that it can’t be anything but. For one, the gossamer fabric is completely transparent. Even with its golden color, someone would be able to see all of Sansa underneath without squinting. The sleeves are mere straps connecting over the shoulders and leave the back and the area just above her nipples revealed. If that weren’t enough, the garment is just barely long enough to cover her bum.

However, she starts to feel a familiar ache between her legs as she looks down at the shift. She wonders how Sandor would react if he saw her wearing something so… _sinful_. She hasn’t felt anything but sadness and anger for the last three days while they were on the run. She just wants to feel something. She wants to forget about everything, even if it’s only for a little while.

So she bathes herself, washes all the dirt and grime and dried blood from her skin. The soap that’s been provided for her has no strong scents, but it is enough for her. When she’s finished, she pulls the shift over her body, not bothering with putting on her smallclothes. When she looks down and sees her nude body completely on display from beneath the golden fabric, how the material clings to the moisture still present on her skin, she feels her cheeks, neck, and ears heat up intensely. She second guesses whether or not she should go through with her plan, but the firm knock on her door alerting her to Sandor’s presence steels her.

She lightly combs her fingers through her hair and unbolts the door to let him in. She uses the door for a cover until he enters the room, closing and locking the door behind him.

He hasn’t even looked at her yet when he speaks, “Is that bath water still warm? That was some dirty work down there, me and that boy could barely get it all.”

“Yes,” she answers, “You’ll need to be clean for what I want to do to you.”

“What?” he laughs, though when he turns around, his eyes widen, and mouth hang open comically. She almost laughs but decides against it so as to not hurt his pride. Instead, she approaches him slowly. When she is right in front of him and reaching up to begin unbuckling his armor, he grabs ahold of her waist, bunching up the fabric within his fist. “What the fuck is this?”

She swats his hand away. “Don’t rip it. I actually quite like this shift and would prefer to wear it in the future. Now, let me get this armor off you so I can wash you.”

“You come to me, looking like pure sin, and all you can worry about is getting me clean?”

She stands on her tip toes and silences him with a kiss, ending it by biting down on his bottom lip. As she lowers herself back down, she goes back to removing his armor. He does not take his hooded eyes off her during the whole ordeal, and it’s getting harder and harder for her to control herself. The ache between her legs has intensified tenfold to the point that it’s almost painful, and she needs something inside her desperately.

When he’s down to his smallclothes, she kneels in front of him so that she is level with his obviously hard member. She undoes the ties unhurriedly, making sure not to touch him at all. She wants him wound up. When she languidly slides the fabric down his muscled legs, her mouth waters at the sight of him. She can’t help herself; she leans forward and slides her tongue against the length of him, from stem to root, gently running her hands along his thighs.

“Stop being a fucking tease, so we can get on with it,” he groans.

She lightly kisses the tip of his manhood, smiling up at him. She’s got him wrapped around her finger. She stands and points to the tub. “Get in.”

He’s so huge that his legs can’t even fit in the tub; he has to bend his knees. He starts hurriedly scrubbing his body, but she stills him by kneeling behind him and placing her hands on his shoulders. She is kinder with his body, delicately rubbing the soap into his skin and using her nails to brush away the dirt and blood. When she begins washing his hair, he groans and leans his head back against her. She can see his hand reach across his hip to take himself in hand.

She slides a hand down his chest and stomach, stopping him in his ministrations. “No.”

“Sansa…” he growls.

“Let me do it.” She is leaning over him now, her lips just barely grazing against his, as she begins to run her fingernails lightly on the underside of his cock. Without warning, he sinks down into the water and comes back up. He shakes his head sending water everywhere and tussling his hair wildly about his face and neck. _I’m a dog, remember?_ She recalls him saying during their time in King’s Landing, and she giggles at the memory.

“I’m clean,” he says. Before she knows what’s happening, he spins around in one fluid and captures her in an intensely powerful and passionate kiss. He wraps his arms around her crushing her against his chest and stands, her feet lifting off the ground. He deepens the unescapable kiss, though escaping is definitely the last thing on her mind.

Winterfell, the Freys, Joffrey, the whole world seems to disappear in that single instant. It is only her and Sandor, together. Nothing and no one else to separate them. Her desires take over, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and digging her nails into his skin.

She hadn’t even realized that he was out of the tub until she feels her back slam against the door, trapping her against him. She moans deeply, his mouth swallowing her pleased reaction.

He grips her thighs and lifts her higher, her legs instinctively wrapping around him and his hips locking her into place. She gasps at the unexpected feel of his hardness against her womansplace, her hips grinding against him desperately.

“Shit!” His voice is strained beautifully, and it only serves to make her wetter. He’s looking at her now, his molten silver eyes dark and wild with lust. She shivers against him, making him groan. “How do you want it?”

To answer him, she grabs his hand and brings his middle finger to her lips, lightly nibbling the tip of it before lavishing the whole with her tongue. She guides his hand down her body and between her thighs. He needs no further prompting. He slides his finger down between her moist folds, finding her ready for him.

“Gods, you’re so fucking _wet_.” He pumps his finger in and out of her slowly, experimentally, and her womanhood throbs and trembles from his touch. His eyes never leave her, watching her as she writhes against him. She has lost all thought and control of her body, her head tipping back and closing her eyes. He adds a second finger, and she knows that she is leaving marks in the skin of his back from clawing at him so hard.

Her hips move of their own volition, meeting the rhythm of his thrusts. She knows that she is moaning far too loudly, someone is bound to hear her, but she is beyond caring. Sandor is being far more discreet, though, his labored breathing against her bruised-kissed throat leaving gooseflesh in its wake.

“Sandor!” She squirms in his arms, bucking into his thrusts.

He growls, pushing her roughly against the door and pumping his fingers in her more forcefully, a high-pitched mewl escaping from her. But he doesn’t stop. He gives her no time to adjust to his plundering fingers, though it still feels exquisite. She can feel his hips rocking against her, aiding his thrusts with the intensity he needs. Sobs and moans tear from her throat uncontrollably with every thrust of his fingers.

She throws her hands up, grabbing hold of the framing of the door for support and arching her back. One of his hands reaches up and pulls down her shift, revealing her chest to him. He laves a nipple with his tongue and toys with it between his teeth while his other hand reaches up to pinch the other. Her cries of pleasure elevate at the duel sensation of her nipples being played with and the delicious pounding between her thighs. He pulls back and propels himself forward with a grunt, the force behind this final thrust pushing her over the edge. Her arms slap against his back when she hugs him to her as close as she can and rides out her orgasm against his fingers.

His movements still once she’s thoroughly satisfied with his powerful attentions, and she sags against him. Her breath hits his shoulder, and the pounding of her heart within her ears is a beautiful melody for the aftershocks of their – _lovemaking? Can I really call it that?_

No matter how hard she tries, she can’t stop the tremors that are practically shattering her body, and she leans back so that she can look at his face. As she looks down at him, him staring up at her in wonder and absolute affection, she can’t help but be consumed by how much she truly cares for him.

She feels moisture slide down her cheeks, and she watches his brow furrow in concern.

“Sansa?” he whispers. She blinks rapidly, and she notices the blurriness of her vision. She uses her wrist to wipe at her cheeks, and it isn’t sweat that she’s wiping away. This realization makes her heart sink.

More tears fall as he gently places her back on the ground. She rubs the tears away quickly as she shakes, but they only keep coming, her heart swelling with emotions that she can’t even begin to describe. She presses herself against him, and she can feel his heartbeat. It is still hurried from what they’d just done, though not nearly as frantic as her own. She feels his strong arms wrap lazily around her hips, and he presses his lips to her shoulder.

“Little Bird,” he murmurs against her still heated skin. She wraps her arms around his torso, hugging him against her. His touch is so tender, so loving. Her chin quivers, and she can’t help it as more heated tears slide down her cheeks.

“I won’t let anyone take you away from me,” she sobs, “You’re mine.”

She pulls back to glance up at him, sniffling and sighing. He leans down to capture her lips in a kiss filled with emotion and comfort. His fingers brush her tears away, and he separates so that he can pick her up and lay her down on the bed, following after her. He pulls her against his chest, whispering comforting words in her ear. With Sandor’s warmth enveloping her, Sansa closes her eyes and is able to make it through the night in the luminosity of their intimacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was a wild ride.
> 
> I found it very difficult to write this chapter. Mostly because it's an emotional rollercoaster and I didn't want to fuck it all up.
> 
> By the way, concerning Allayi's dialogue, I wanted to convey that she doesn't speak Common very well (because she's from the slave cities) which is why her dialogue is kind of awkward. If it is too much or just plain not understandable, just let me know and I'll change it to normal.
> 
> Anyways, thank you all so much for reading and hopefully the next chapter won't take quite so long to come!


	4. The Wolf Pack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya!
> 
> So, I've seen a lot of people asking for shorter chapters so that it's easier to read, and so I did that. I can be a little intense with my writing sometimes and I'm sorry about that. I hope these shorter chapters will be easier to digest than the larger ones.
> 
> Anyways, I hope y'all enjoy reading and let me know what you think!

Sansa wakes early the next morning. The light of the lantern has been blown out, the only source of illumination coming from the grey light filtering in from the window. The first thing she takes notice to is Sandor’s strong arms practically caging her against him, one cushioned beneath her neck and the other wrapped around her waist so that her back is flush against his chest. The next thing is the pleasant ache between her thighs, and not just from the pleasure Sandor’s fingers had caused the night before. She gasps when she slides her hand across her hips and parts her folds, finding herself wet and her clit swollen. She bites her lip hard to keep her moans at bay as she strokes and presses her nub with the pad of her finger.

She feels Sandor become hard, his erection pressing against her backside. She can’t help rocking her hips against him. Suddenly she feels teeth at the junction between her shoulder and neck, crying out when they nip and suck at her flesh. He groans when he’s rewarded with another grind of her ass against him.

“I’m sorry,” she gasps, her voice husky, “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he growls, shoving her hand away from her lower lips and replacing it with his own. “All I want to hear is your singing.”

The arm that is beneath her head curls across her chest and beneath her thin shift so that he can fondle a breast within his hand, using his fingers to pull and gently twist her nipple. His fingers graze over her clit before he slides down even further and pushes two fingers inside her effortlessly. He pumps his fingers into her until she is panting and moaning, hooking his fingers in a final thrust before pulling them out again to rub at her clit. She lets out a frustrated moan at his teasing, and he laughs breathlessly into her shoulder.

She gasps when his presence disappears from behind her, and her back hits the mattress. Her surprise is immediately replaced by intense pleasure when he slides his fingers back down to her entrance to push inside her, as deep as he can possibly go. She arches her back and moans, her breasts slipping out from underneath her shift. She feels him lean forward to suck a nipple into his mouth once then he is hovering over her, their eyes meeting and locked onto one another. She can feel her inner walls tightening around him, trembling as he works her. Finally, he crooks his fingers inside her and uses his thumb to press against her clit, making her toes curl and throwing her head back in ecstasy.

“Oh, gods, yes! Just like that! Please, don’t stop! Sandor, I’m so close!” she cries, her words coming out a jumbled mess.

His other hand comes up to cradle the back of her head, forcing her to look at him. “I want to see how beautiful you look when you come.”

Even though she feels the urge to close her eyes as this intense pleasure courses through her body, she keeps them open for him, locking her gaze with his. Sandor easily sends her over the precipice in just a few hard strokes, her body jerking from the powerful explosion of her orgasm. Of their own accord, her hands reach up to cup his face, his forehead pressed against hers as he continues to pump his fingers. Once the tremors in her body subside, he removes his fingers from her, her legs twitching from the aftershocks.

She feels his arousal against her thigh, and she sits up quickly, pushing him onto his back. She will not leave him without release like she had the night before. She straddles him across his legs, grasping his erection in her hand.

“Little Bird, you don’t have to- “he can’t even finish his words before she leans down and takes him into her mouth, a primal growl erupting from his throat. She’s amazed by how hard he is simply from pleasuring her. She doesn’t even bother with exploration this time as she works him towards his release. When she’s sure he’s about to come, she pulls away, keeping her hand moving in a steady pumping motion. His seed spurts from his throbbing member, landing in fast bursts on his taut stomach. He sprawls out on his back, eyes closed and breathing deeply.

She stands to retrieve a towel from the table. Their bath is still in the room, the water having gone cold. She doesn’t know if it was left there on purpose or if the serving maid had just forgotten to retrieve it, but Sansa wets a small portion of the towel with the leftover bath water before returning to the bedside.

His eyes abruptly open when she begins wiping up the mess on his stomach, and he sits up, tossing his feet off the side of the bed. He yanks the towel out of her grasp, wiping himself off before flinging it away. His hands then come up to lightly grasp her waist, the golden fabric of her shift bunching up in his hands as he gently caresses her body.

“This fucking shift…” he mumbles, “Gods, I want to tear this thing off you so bad.”

He leans forward, kissing her between her breasts and up to her collarbone. She sighs when one of his hands travels between her thighs to stroke at her still damp folds. He groans, nuzzling his face in her chest.

“I could make you come again, if you want.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she says, but that familiar feeling is starting to build up within her again as he continues to stroke her.

A firm knock on the door breaks through her heated thoughts. “Someone’s at the door,” she says, but he doesn’t stop. He pulls her shift down and takes a nipple into his mouth, teasing it between his teeth.

Another knock sounds, slightly more insistent than the one before. “Just ignore it. They’ll go away,” he rasps. He applies a little more pressure to her clit, and she gasps out.

Whoever is on the other side of the door is very adamant on getting in; a third knock thuds so loud that she’s sure the person must be slamming their fist into the wooden surface. Sandor growls and stands, his touch leaving her body and making her whimper at the loss. “I’m going to kill whoever’s on the other side of that damned door.” He bends over to pick up his breeches off the ground, clumsily pulling them up his legs while he walks towards the door. He grabs and unsheathes his sword.

He just barely unbolts the door and it’s Allayi that shoves the door forcefully open and waltzes in, adorned in not only the shortswords she used the night before but also a bow and quiver across her shoulders. Sansa quickly grabs the blanket off the bed and covers herself.

“The fuck?” Sandor shouts grabbing Allayi roughly by her forearm.

She cries out in pain. “Let me go! I came to help Queen with the dressing.”

“Who the fuck are you? Why did you just barge in?”

“I want to dress Queen for journey to north. Let go of me!”

“Sandor, let her go,” Sansa says, and he does as he’s bid.

“Who the fuck is this?” he seethes.

“Her name is Allayi,” Sansa says, “She’s coming with us.”

“Oh, is she now?” Sandor growls, “And you didn’t think to ask me how  _I_  felt about that?”

“I am going to ask you, but I wanted the both of you to speak first.” Sansa suddenly feels very self-conscious standing before this unknown woman in nothing but a flimsy shift and a blanket. “Though I would’ve rather waited until later.” She feels her cheeks heat up, looking at Allayi worriedly. “I swear, it’s not what it looks like. We weren’t- “

“You were fucking,” Allayi says simply, interrupting her.

Sansa stares at her, completely caught off guard. “How did- “

“You are too loud,” she answers before Sansa can finish her question. “You are lucky I had bedmate last night.”

“If you say anything to anyone, I’ll tear your throat out, whore,” Sandor growls, towering over her in an intimidating manner.

“I not care who Queen fucks,” she says, not cowering in the slightest. In fact, she steps closer to him, looking him in the face and glowering. “I deal with worse than you in Yunkai,  _chiftik_.”

“The fuck did you call me?!”

Sansa drops her blanket and shoves herself in between them, effectively pushing them apart from each other. “Enough fighting. If we’re going to travel together, we’ll need to get along.” She turns towards Sandor. “Sandor, would you go downstairs and get some food for us to break our fast, please?”

He looks between the two women suspiciously before doing as she’s told him to. He searches through the pile of clothes on the ground for his tunic and boots, throwing them on haphazardly, and walking out the door. Sansa searches for her smallclothes on the table, where she left all of her clothes before she’d taken her bath, pulling and tying them languidly up to her full hips beneath her shift. Allayi unfolds the dress she’d brought last night and holds it open for Sansa to step inside.

“You don’t seem to like Sandor very much,” Sansa says as Allayi laces up the back of the dress.

“Men are not to be trusted,” Allayi says as if it were fact, “They want one thing. Mark my words, Queen, he will cut out your heart and feed it to dogs.”

“You’re wrong, he will never hurt me.” Sansa feels the hair on the back of her neck bristle. “You mark  _my_  words; if you ever lay even a single scratch on him, I will make him hold you down, and his face will be the last thing you see before I slit your throat.”

She feels Allayi stop with her lacing and a dread settles in her stomach. She does not know why she’d threatened the woman in such a manner, what could’ve possibly possessed her to say such a thing. She’d just felt a strange sense of protectiveness blossom within her and seize control over her emotions.  _He is mine,_  she thinks,  _And I am his._

“I’m sorry, I do not mean to make you my enemy,” Sansa says, “Sandor is very important to me. We’ve been through… _so much_  together. I trust him with everything that I am, and I will not let anyone tear us apart. Do you understand?”

Allayi goes back to lacing up her dress, though more apprehensively. “I understand, Queen.”

Sansa continues, “If this is a problem for you, you do not have to travel with us.”

“I will still go,” Allayi says quickly, “The  _shier-_ er, red comet was sent by gods to lead me to you. I not defy them.”

Sandor comes through the door just as Allayi has finished lacing up her dress. “They have porridge and bread downstairs.”

Sansa nods her acknowledgment to him and slips her shoes on. She places a gentle hand on Allayi’s shoulder. “Come break your fast with us, please.”

“Yes, Queen.”

They sit at one of the tables near the hearth. The serving maid brings a tray with three steaming bowls of porridge and a basket of bread once they’re seated. The girl blushes when she meets Allayi’s gaze, though the exotic woman appears unfazed when looking at her. The oatmeal is bland with only butter to flavor it, but the bread is soft and spiced with cinnamon to make up for it. Sansa lightly pulls a piece off her loaf and delicately dips it in her gruel before popping it into her mouth.

“Tell me where you came from,” Sansa prompts, meeting Allayi’s eyes.

Allayi is taken aback by the question, her eyes widening slightly and mouth falling open as though she does not know what to say. She shakes her head. “You will not be wanting to hear my story.”

“I do want to know,” she says, “If I’m to travel with you and have you protect me, I want to know who you are.”

Allayi is silent a moment before nodding. “Very well. I am Dothraki. I was once member of  _Khal_ Izzo’s  _khalasar_. It was not very big, and our  _khas_ were not very strong. My father was hunter, my mother was healer. She was teaching me her way so I take her place when time come. We were attacked by another  _khalasar_ one year. They killed my father, and my mother…They…her and me…they…” Her hands tighten into fists on the table, and Sansa can hear her teeth grinding against one another. “ _Graddakh_ ,” she hisses beneath her breath.

Sansa can tell that she’s distressed about something and decides not to push her. “You don’t have to tell me if you’d rather not.”

Allayi relaxes a little at that. After a moment, she continues, “They killed my mother and took me and other girls and sold us in Yunkai. There I learned seven sighs and sixteen seats of pleasure.”

“What are those?” Sansa asks.

Allayi clears her throat. “I was pleasure slave, Queen.”

Sansa’s eyes widen a little. “Oh.” She can feel the blush practically melt her cheeks.  _Honestly, with all the things Sandor’s done to my body how can I still be so childish?_  She changes the subject, “Tell me about your dream.”

Allayi sighs. “Is difficult to explain…” she mumbles.

“What are you talking about? What dream?” Sandor asks.

“She claims to have been sent to me by Joffrey’s comet,” Sansa answers.

“Not this again,” he groans, “All these fucking witches and their dreams…”

“I am no  _maegi_ ,” Allayi snaps, glaring daggers at him. “I not know why dream come, but it came when red comet appeared. It was gods who sent me to her.”

“Oh, of course the  _gods_  sent you, and I’m sure you’ll tell us next that the dragons have come back, as well?”

She opens her mouth as if to respond, but Sansa interrupts her. “Enough, Sandor. Let her tell her tale.”

He scoffs before dipping his loaf of bread into his porridge and biting into it. If looks could kill, Sandor’s glare on Allayi would’ve torn her completely apart, limb from limb.

Allayi furrows her brows, looking down at her untouched meal. “It was very strange dream. Unlike any I ever had. I was…buried in this white sand, so  _cold_  and numbing. And there was a noise, a terrible noise not of this world. I reached out for something and took hold of rock and pulled myself up onto rocky edge of cliff. For moment, I just watch as it consume everything in sight, but it is so dark...as if all life and light in the world were gone. I fall, and everything is white again.”

Sansa furrows her brows in concentration. “Could it have been the Long Night you saw?” What Allayi is describing sounds a lot like the stories that Old Nan used to tell her and her siblings.

“Perhaps…” Allayi shudders then continues, “When I reach ground, I heard shambling footsteps approaching. Skeletons and half-rotted men coming for me…Their eyes, they were worst part: bright unnatural eyes. I felt the fear settle in me and I was sure I would be taken.” Allayi lifts her gaze to meet Sansa’s. “But you were there, Queen. I saw you on great red wolf, reaching for me.” She takes a loaf of bread, taking a tentative bite. “That is when I woke, and then I saw  _shierak qiya_  in sky. People said it was bad omen, but  _I_  knew it was not so. I saw it point me the way to you, Queen; past the poison water to Westeros.”

“And this dream made you want to help me?” Sansa questions.

Allayi nods. “I…That darkness was so terrible. I want to stop it. This world is rotten, but Jaehra, she…” Allayi’s tough expression falters for just a moment until she shakes her head and regains her composure. “I will not stand by and let this Long Night destroy everything.”

Sansa’s stomach turns when Allayi is through.  _The Long Night happened eight thousand years ago,_ Sansa remembers,  _There surely won’t be another one._ Sansa looks at Sandor and that same protective feeling blossoms inside her. She wonders if this is what he feels for her. “I would not want to stand by, either,” Sansa finally says.

Allayi perks up at that. “So…you will be taking me with you, Queen?”

Sansa looks to Sandor as if asking his permission, but he simply shrugs. “It’s your decision, in the end,” he tells her.

Sansa nods then turns back to Allayi, steeling her expression. “You can come with us.”

It doesn’t take them long to gather up their belongings and go out to saddle the horses. She’s surprised by the generosity of the innkeep and his daughter. They offer Sansa’s party provisions, free of charge, enough to get them by for a few days. Sansa delicately fingers the stitching of a fish on the blue dress she’d worn for the wedding. She’d thought about throwing it into the hearth; it’s probably permanently ruined from the amount of blood crusted and soaked in the fabric. But it was her mother’s, the only thing Sansa has to remember her by. She gently stuffs the dress into one of the saddlebags on Stranger’s saddle.

Sandor places his hands on her waist to lift her up onto Stranger’s back. When she’s perfectly situated, she pulls her cloak tighter around herself, shivering from the slight chill in the air. “Where are we going?” she asks.

“Your Grace, wait!”

Everyone turns towards where the shout came from at the inn’s entrance. The young northman who’d helped them fight the Frey soldiers stumbles out from the doorway, clumsily pulling a boot onto his foot.

He kneels before Sansa. “Please, Your Grace, I would like to accompany you and your companions.”

Sansa furrows her brows. “Who are you?”

“Gared Tuttle, Your Grace,” he says, lifting his eyes to meet hers, “I am- er,  _was_  a squire to Lord Gregor of House Forrester.”

“Lord Forrester?” Sansa widens her eyes a little. The Forresters are a minor house from Ironrath. They live close to Winterfell, and Sansa used to see a lot of them before she left for King’s Landing with her father and sister. She remembers Mira Forrester, who’d she’d been extremely jealous of when she’d been sent to be a handmaiden in High Garden to Lady Margaery Tyrell. Sansa had been rather fond of sweet Talia who was about her age and her twin Ethan…who perhaps is now the new Lord Forrester. She recalls that the Forresters had sent soldiers with her brother; which would mean Lord Gregor and Rodrik Forrester were present at the wedding, as well.

“Were you…?” Sansa starts, but she can’t seem to finish her sentence. The events of that night were so horrific that she can’t help but remember every detail. She feels bile sting at the back of her throat.

Gared figures out what she’s trying to ask. “Yes, Your Grace. I was there.” He finally stands. “I was able to escape after the ambush began, but Lord Gregor and Rodrik died during the slaughter.” His expression grows sympathetic as he looks up at her. “Though my losses certainly don’t compare to yours. You have my deepest condolences, Your Grace.”

Sansa shakes her head. “We’ve all lost so much in this war. There is no need for you to compare your loss to mine.”

“Please, let me take you to Ironrath, Your Grace. House Forrester isn’t a great house, but they are loyal to House Stark. They will protect you.”

“The northern Houses think you are either dead or lost,” Sandor tells her, “They will likely bend the knee to whoever the new Warden in the North is. If we go to Ironrath, there’s a chance that they will either turn you away or give you to your enemies.”

“What do you suggest, Sandor?” she asks.

“We should go to Essos. We can stay in one of the Free Cities. No one will ever search for you there.”

Sansa glares down at him defiantly. “I will not flee like a coward and let some rat of a lord take my home.”

“No, you  _must_  go to Essos, Queen,” Allayi states from atop her palomino. “But not to some Free City. You must go to Dragon Queen.”

“You mean that damn Targaryen girl?” Sandor snorts, “Last I heard she was married to some horselord with his colt in her belly. What could she possibly do for us?”

“She is with  _Khal_  Drogo no more. She commands army of Unsullied and sellswords on her own, claiming to be Queen of seven kingdoms. And she has dragons,” Allayi clarifies.

Sandor’s brow furrows in disbelief. “That’s not possible.”

“It is true. She has three dragons size of dogs. She would be great ally to Queen in North.”

“Truly?” Sansa breathes, her voice barely above a whisper. She looks to Sandor whose face has paled considerably and mouth hanging open in shock. She knows his fear of fire, and she can’t help but feel sympathy flood her heart.

She shakes her head. “No, we will not go to her.” Her family doesn’t have a good standing with the Targaryens, and she knows what’d happened the last time a Stark went to a Targaryen. The Mad King Aerys had killed her grandfather and uncle, and she’s very familiar with the saying  _Every time a Targaryen is born the gods flip a coin_. What if this Targaryen is just as mad, if not more so, than her father? What if this Dragon Queen harbors vindictive feelings towards House Stark for their role during Robert’s Rebellion? She would surely kill Sansa if that were the case. Or perhaps take her as a prisoner, which Sansa would not allow to happen.

Then her thoughts turn to Jon Snow, her bastard brother.  _No, my brother._ After all, he is the only one left alive. Thinking on him makes her feel a little less alone in the world. Perhaps she should go to him, if he still lives. There is so much she needs to apologize for, and perhaps having someone to share in her grief would help her in the days to come.

“We’ll go north,” she says, her voice hard with a strong determination. “We will see if House Forrester is truly as loyal as you say.”  _Then we’ll go to the Wall._  However, she does not say this aloud.

“As you wish, Queen,” Allayi says, nodding her understanding.

“You won’t regret this, Your Grace,” Gared says, “House Forester will fight for you, I promise.”

“Any ideas how to get to Ironrath?” Sandor asks him. “We’re on the completely wrong side of the river, and we can’t risk swimming across or going back to the Twins.”

Gared shields his eyes as he looks at the rising sun then points in a direction. “We could go around. It should only take us a few days to get to the forests north of here. If we cut through them, then through the Neck, we should make it to Ironrath within two months.”

“Do you plan to walk?” Allayi asks, “Because you not ride with me.”

Gared widens eyes, seeming a little offended before he shakes his head. “The innkeep allowed me to pick one of the horses those Frey men had without charging me.”

Gared takes his pick from the team, choosing a chestnut colored stallion. Once everything has been settled and their belongings are securely stored, they begin their trek north.

“I’ll miss that maid,” Allayi sighs, idly swaying in her saddle. “She has big tits, the size of head.”

“You shouldn’t talk of her like that, especially in front of the Queen. It’s shameful.” Gared scolds, riding along beside her.

Allayi sputters out a raucous laugh. “Ha! Queen has no shame, and neither does big titted maid. Those curves!” She lets out a satisfied moan. “I can still feel how soft they were.”

Gared’s face lights up with confusion and skepticism. “Hold on. She went to you too?”

Allayi’s mouth breaks into a sly grin. She pokes Gared’s rib with her elbow. “Did you also sample sweet honey?”

“What? No, of course I didn’t!” Gared exclaims, startling his horse a little. The stallion stumbles away before finding its footing again. “I don’t even know her, and I didn’t want to dishonor her.”

“Fuck your honor,” Allayi swears. “I be giving that woman best fucking of her life.”

Sansa’s cheeks color from the immoral topic of the conversation, but her curiosity is peaked. “What do you mean you fu-…er, made love to her? How can a woman do that to another?”

“I not make love to her, Queen. I  _fuck_  her as all woman should be fucked,” Allayi rasps, her voice husky. “It is like that funny song, Queen.” Allayi puts two fingers in front of her lips, spreading them and laving her tongue between them. “ _I_   _licked_   _the_   _honey_   _from_   _her_   _hair._ ”

“What are you- “But it’s suddenly very apparent what Allayi is referring to, and Sansa’s eyes widen comically. The blush on her cheeks spread to her ears and chest, and she rubs her thighs together when her brain involuntarily replays a fantasy of Sandor’s head between her legs.

“Look! You’re making her uncomfortable!” Gared reprimands.

Allayi lets out another burst of giggles. “Queen is not uncomfortable. No wonder you not drink maid’s honey.”

Gared glares at her, a slight tint glowing on his cheeks. “I’ll have you know, I’ve drunken many a maids’…” He glances at Sansa quickly, struggling with saying the word in front of her. He finally says a little softer, “…honey.”

“Aw, such a clueless little green boy,” Allayi coos.

Sandor groans. “Will you two shut your mouths? If I have to listen to anymore of this, I’ll throw you both in a river.”

Sansa suddenly starts laughing at the absurdity of the whole conversation, closing her eyes and covering her mouth with her hand. Though, that does not stop the muffled sound from being heard. It is the first time she’s truly laughed since the wedding, and it feels good. She feels her heart flutter within her chest, and her eyes water with mirth, and the weight slowly lifts from her shoulders.

Allayi turns out to be a very comical and fiery woman while they travel. She always seems to have a grotesque sexual story to share, annoying Sandor and Gared to no end but completely enrapturing Sansa with them. She’d thought that what Shae had told her was scandalous, but this Dothraki woman had done things that were ten times more wicked than what Shae had ever taught her.

She also tended to dismount randomly during their journey to pluck herbs from the ground, or she’d break away from them to go off on her own. She would somehow find them later, holding a rabbit or bird within her grasp for them to cook. Sometimes she would get lost in thought and not say anything, and anytime someone spoke, even if not addressing her, she would voice her aggravation. One time she’d snapped at Sansa and made her cry. Allayi had never done it again after that.

Gared was really pleasant to talk to. He reminded Sansa of Robb and sometimes Jon as well. It gave her comfort to listen to him talk of his family or of his life before this awful war. He never had anything bad to say, never complained, and kept his wits about him no matter the situation. Surprisingly, Sandor seemed to like him as well from what Sansa had seen. Or maybe it was that Sandor was too focused on verbally sparring with Allayi.

Sandor made another spear for her and they resumed their training as normal. It felt good to have a spear in her fist. She felt grounded.  _Safe_. She had two new partners to share in her sparring too. Allayi was hard for Sansa to fight with. When the Dothraki fought, she became wild, moving with such a speed that Sansa could hardly keep up with her. Sansa had yet to win a fight against her.

However, Sandor was able to beat Allayi every single time they sparred. This pissed her off to no end, and every time they fought, Allayi would become more aggressive than the last time. Anytime Sandor made a comment to her to help her improve her skill, she would spit at his feet and tell him to shut up. Though Sansa could see that she’d taken his advice to heart. Every time, she applied one of Sandor’s techniques, and she got better and better.

Gared was significantly easier for Sansa to spar with. In fact, he hadn’t once been able to beat her. Though it was obviously not due to any particular amount of skill. She knew that if he had a sword and shield that he would be beating her far more often. The greatsword he had with him was simply too heavy for him to wield. One night he confided in them that it was the greatsword of House Forrester. Lord Gregor had entrusted it to him before he’d died, tasking Gared with the task of returning it to Ironrath. It was the only thing he had with him when he’d escaped from the Twins.

They follow the path north along the Green Fork, and five days later they finally make it to the forest. At first, nothing is amiss when they enter. It is obvious that this forest has experienced little to no human trespassing. There are no roads or paths to guide them. At night Sansa hears wolves howling all around them, one of them so loud and inhuman that it chills her to the bones and makes her queasy. When they wake the next morning, they are surrounded by a dense fog, barely able to make out where exactly they need to be going. Allayi takes to etching into the surface of the trees they pass.

“Are you mad, woman?” Sandor barks the first time she does it, “Do you want to lead an enemy straight toward us?”

“Either I mark way or we get lost,” she answers.

He grumbles something underneath his breath, just loud enough for Sansa to hear, “I’ll kill her if she gets you hurt.”

After three days of traveling, everyone begins to become even more unsettled. Sleeping is hard due to the wolves at night, and everyone settles into a weary silence. Not even Allayi can bring herself to conversate. When Allayi dismounts her palomino to mark a tree, her brows furrow as she notices that the tree’s already marked.

“ _Ki fin yeni_ …?” she stutters.

Sandor pulls Stranger to a halt next to Allayi’s horse, his eyes widening in fury and face reddening. “What the fuck is this, whore?!” he shouts so loudly that Sansa flinches from in front of him.

“What you mean?” Allayi snaps back, “This not my work!”

“The fuck it is,” he growls dismounting, and approaching her with quick steps. “You’ve lead us in a gods’ damned circle!”

“No! We must’ve gotten turned around somehow! Or…” She scrutinizes the mark more closely, then her eyes widen. “This is not my mark…”

“What?” Gared interjects, his brows raising in worry.

“It is not mine,” Allayi repeats, slowly pulling her bow from about her shoulders and notching an arrow. “These marks are thinner than how I make. Someone is here.”

Suddenly, Sansa feels a sharp pain pierce through her shoulder and stopping at the bone of her shoulder blade. She cries out, Allayi aiming the arrow in her direction. Sansa lifts a hand to her shoulder, her fingers grasping around an arrowshaft and causing her wound to throb. She looks at Sandor, bile rising in her throat from the intense pain. He is looking at her with a completely disbelieving expression.

“Sandor…” she breathes.

A group of men, northern soldiers by the look of it, emerge from the dense fog. They have the pink flayed man of House Bolton stitched onto their leather jerkins. Three of them are afoot while the other two are riding horseback.

One of the footsoldiers, a man with a bow and arrow, widens his eyes when he sees the arrow in Sansa’s shoulder. “Did I hit you? I thought you was one of them damned wolves with that cloak.”

Sandor turns to the man with a savage look on his face, withdrawing his sword from its sheathe. “I’m going to rip you apart.”

Allayi aims her arrow towards the group. Gared quickly moves his horse to stand between both parties. “No, calm down,” he says quickly, then turns his attention towards the Bolton men. “Please, we’re just travelling. Be on your way, and we’ll forget about this.”

“Hold a moment,” the same soldier says, squinting at Sandor. His eyes widen, and his mouth quirks in an ugly black toothed smirk. “Well, I’ll be. You’re the fuckin’ Hound.” He looks at Sansa. “And you’re Lady Sansa Stark. Lord Roose Bolton’s been looking for- “An arrow pierces right through his mouth to the back of his head. Luckily, it hadn’t hit Gared.

“Run, Queen!” Allayi shouts, slapping her hand hard against Stranger’s rear.

Stranger rears up at the startling feeling. Sansa can feel her fingernails biting into her palm from having to grip the reins so hard as to not be thrown off. Sansa screams as he breaks into a hard gallop, not even stumbling when he tramples the dead Bolton on the ground. She leans forward, wrapping her arms around Stranger’s neck as branches and leaves smack her face. After a few seconds, she feels a hard kick to her ribs and falls off the horse.

She feels bones popping as she tumbles across the ground, the pain in her shoulder immense and excruciating. She can feel the warm ticklish feeling of blood trickling from the wound and down her arm and side. When she’s finally stopped rolling, she shifts to her back. A sob escapes from her throat against her will, tears stinging her vision. She still has her spear gripped in one hand, somehow not injuring or killing herself during her drop. She’d need to remind herself to pray to all the gods later that night.

The man that’d pushed her dismounts from his own horse, approaching her and pulling her up by the hair. She acts quickly, stabbing at the first body part she sees. He yelps when she pierces his side, letting her go and stumbling back. He presses a hand to his wound. It isn’t too deep of a cut, but it gives her enough time to right herself, standing on weak wobbly knees. Her left arm hangs useless and numb at her side.

“You fuckin’ bitch.”

She moves to get another jab in, but he grabs her stick. He pulls hard, easily disarming her and making her fall to her knees a few feet away. He leans forward and grabs ahold of her wrist. She lifts her skirts and unsheathes her dagger. She slices his wrist deftly, the one holding hers, and when he let’s go she sees the huge gaping gash she’s left there. She knows that he will die soon from a wound like that, but she will not allow him to hurt her until then. Nor will she condemn someone to a slow death. She lifts her knife to his throat cutting as deeply as she can go.

Another Bolton comes for her though: the other horseback rider. He dismounts quickly steadily making his way over to her. She is breathing heavily, her body becoming weaker and weaker by the second. He grips her wrist, twisting. She cries out as the dagger falls from her grasp. She grits her teeth and glowers at him despite the tears in her eyes.  _No!_  She lifts a hand to his face clawing at his eyes. Her blood sings from the agonizing cry he let’s out.  _I’ll not let you have her!_

She lets out a terrified shout when a large grey direwolf lunges from the mist and grabs the man within her gigantic teeth. To say that it is large seems like an understatement once Sansa is able to focus. She gasps and scoots back as far away from the beast as she can, her back hitting the trunk of a tree and making her shoulder throb. The creature is so great that her back just barely brushes against the branches of the trees above. Sansa’d heard it said that Balerion the Black Dread had been so large and fearsome that he could swallow an aurochs whole. But this great beast… Sansa watches in horror as she holds down the man’s leg with one large paw the size of a tree trunk and traps his upper half within her jaws. She can hear the man’s muffled screams as the direwolf tears him apart. His intestines hang from the beast’s teeth, and blood drips from its jowls.

Sansa gags when the direwolf swallows and laps up his insides. “ _Oh gods…_ ” she gasps, as she leans to the side and retches.

The wolf turns to her then, seemingly just remembering that she was there.  _Lady?_ But of course, it is not her. Lady is dead, and she’d had golden eyes. This creature has grey eyes…eyes that remind her of Arya and her father and Jon Snow, and she feels a strange sense of ease come over her. Though when the direwolf stalks towards her, the fear comes back. She pushes herself up to a standing position despite her whole body screaming, begging her for relief.

“No…please…” She whimpers pathetically.

She braces herself against the tree, turning her face and squeezing her eyes shut. She can feel tears fall from beneath her closed lids. The direwolf whines and nuzzles her large snout against Sansa’s front. Sansa peaks an eye open to look at the beast, and in that moment,  _she knows_. Her eyes widen, and the tears fall more quickly. She feels an excited feeling overwhelm her, like when she’d been reunited with Grey Wind.  _Whose feelings are these?_ But she knows this is Nymeria, even without her golden eyes. Strangely she knows who’s watching her through this great direwolf.

“Arya…”

“Get away from her, you monster!” Sandor calls out.

Nymeria growls in the direction the voice had come from, and Sansa looks on worriedly.  _Sandor…She’s going to…_ The beast readies to pounce on Sandor when he breaks through the fog, Gared and Allayi following behind with their horses. Sansa hurls herself onto Nymeria’s snout.

“I’m sorry, Arya…” she says in a wheezing breath. Sansa tightens her arms around Nymeria as much as she can. The direwolf’s snarling stops, and Nymeria backs up quickly. She swings her head about, trying to throw Sansa off. Nymeria’s teeth cut into Sansa’s arms, and she feels blood soak her sleeves and mix with the Bolton man’s blood already crusted into the fur of the direwolf’s muzzle. The direwolf settles finally.

Sansa hears Allayi notch an arrow into her bow. “No!” she shouts, holding up a hand behind her. Maybe she’s absolutely crazy, but she knows this creature, and she can tame her. “Arya, please listen…I’m so sorry…” she whispers, and the anger in those grey eyes disappears. “I was there at the Twins. I couldn’t save them. I failed.” More tears blur her vision. “I’m so sorry, Arya.” Sansa takes in a shuddering breath, calming herself. “I need you to find me. I’m going north to take back our home; I’m in the forest on the left side of the Green Fork. Please, sister. I will make you understand. But don’t hurt him, please…he…he is everything to me.”

When Nymeria blinks, her eyes change to gold. Sansa sighs happily.  _Sister,_  that inhuman voice rumbles from deep within her.

Then everything is black.


	5. The Stranger

Sandor is at Sansa’s side in an instant, catching her before she can hit the ground. His hand lifts to her face and feels how deathly cold she is. Her skin is so pale that it’s almost white. _No. No. She can’t be dead. I won’t allow this to happen._

Allayi approaches the pair, the back of her hand lightly resting against Sansa’s forehead. The Hound is having none of it. As gently as he can manage in his rage, he lays Sansa back on the ground. He stands, grabbing Allayi by the shoulder and flinging her a few feet away. She trips and falls to the ground on her knees. When she’s regained her bearings, she turns to him while still on the ground, glaring up at his towering form.

“The fuck!” she hisses.

“You stupid bitch,” he growls, “You killed her. You killed her, you slut!”

She stands, unflinching from his hateful gaze. “I not kill her, it was those men. _Ezas eshna gech ahilee!_ ”

She’s telling the truth, she had no real part in hurting or killing Sansa. But the Hound is hungry for blood. He aches to twist his blade in someone’s gut, to tear someone apart. He’d killed the Bolton men far too quickly for his liking, desperate to reach Sansa before anything happened to her.

“I’ll rip your beating heart out, cunt,” he snarls, “I’ll rip it out with my bare hands and stuff it down your throat.” He unsheathes his sword.

Allayi widens her eyes, holding her hands up defensively. “You’re mad!”

Gared jumps in between them, facing Sandor. “Calm down, man. This isn’t the way.”

“Fuck off!” Sandor barks, “I’m going to make this bitch bleed, and I’ll do the same to you if you stand in my way.”

Gared reaches behind his shoulder and unsheathes his greatsword. “I- I won’t let you hurt her. I’ll kill you. I swear it.” He tries to sound confident though his knees tremble slightly in fear.

Sandor lets out a bitter laugh. “I’d like to see you try. You can barely even hold that fucking sword of yours.” He hears a light whimpering behind him and turns to see the great direwolf nudging into Sansa’s side with her nose. “I’ll gut you, beast!” He arches his sword and slices into the monster’s face. The cut is shallow, barely leaving a light scar across its eye. The wolf flinches to the side before turning back to him with a fearsome, horrible snarl. She lifts her giant paw and swipes at him, sending him flying back and crushing into a tree.

In the next instant, darkness surrounds him. His legs feel lighter than air, but with every step he takes it feels like big blocks of stone are trying to keep his feet planted on the ground. It’s painful, but he pushes through it, a strong gust of wind urging him forward with naught but a dot of light ahead of him to serve as guidance.

There is something he is searching for. He can feel it coursing through his veins. Though, he doesn’t know what’s waiting for him. As he gets closer, however, he sees her there. His little bird, laying in a glass casket, surrounded by red dragon’s breath and lavender. He pushes his body to its limits, reaching out for her.

_No. She is not yours to have._

The wind stops, and the darkness swallows him up before he can reach her. He falls and falls and falls, fluttering downwards as though he were a feather. He should be scared, but the only thing he can think about is Sansa and how to get to her.

_She is mine now, lost and wandering in my realm. You cannot have her._

The voice that speaks to him sounds like many, but it is cold and apathetic and absolutely terrifying. When it speaks, a wriggling shivers down his spine as if a thousand tiny snakes were slithering across his skin. A massive hand catches him with thumb and forefinger, as gentle as a mother holding her babe. When he looks to the one who’s holding him, instead of a face he is met by a giant with a hooded mantle. The robes they wear are obviously too big for them with a seven-pointed sun stitched onto the front. From what little he can see beneath the hood; their jaw is just bone without skin or muscle.

Sandor finds himself completely overcome with fear, his heart beating erratically and cold sweat forming on his brow. The Stranger speaks in hollow voices.

_Know this, Sandor Clegane, I can see what all will be, what has been, and what could’ve been. Whether you will it or no I will have her. She suffers in past, present, and future. Only through death can she find happiness. Let her go._

With a breath, the Stranger releases him and sends him flying in the wind once more.

An agonizing scream is what wakes him. The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Stranger’s muzzle as he sniffs at his master. Sandor lifts a hand to gently pat him before standing up on unsteady legs. His back and head ache with an excruciating throbbing, but he continues through the pain.

He looks around desperately searching for Sansa, and he sees her where she’d been left. Allayi, Gared, and that direwolf are sitting around her. Gared is pressing a bloodied cloth in her bare shoulder where the arrow used to be, while Allayi is holding said arrow. The great direwolf is sitting peacefully beside them, only glancing at Sandor before looking back down to Sansa. He approaches them, each step sending nauseating stabs of pain to his head and back.

Allayi hears his advance, and glimpses back at him with an ugly scowl before turning her attentions back to the arrow. “You still want to kill me?”

“What are you doing to her?” he asks instead of answering her question.

“Allayi pulled the arrow out of her shoulder, and she screamed like a bloody banshee,” Gared answers, “Clegane, she’s still alive!”

His heart secretly rejoices at that. He’d been so stupid, so consumed by his rage that he had not even properly checked to see if Sansa still had a pulse. Perhaps they’d be able to save her, to bring her to the north like they’d wanted.

_Whether you will it or no I will have her._

“Bugger you and all seven of your faces,” he mumbles.

“Um, what?” Gared furrows his eyebrows at him in utter confusion. “That wolf really knocked all the sense from you, didn’t it?”

Sandor clenches his fists at his sides. “Shut the fuck up,” he growls. He quickly takes a deep breath in order to calm himself before kneeling at Sansa’s feet. “What do we need to do?”

Allayi snorts. “ _We_? You mean _me_. I am healer, I will do the healing.” She points at him accusingly. “If you killed me, she’d be dead. You should be kissing my feet and begging forgiveness.”

“You haven’t fucking done anything yet, whore.”

“Healing takes time.” She turns her attention back to the arrow, examining its bloodied tip. “This arrow is coated in poison.”

“Why would they poison their arrows?” Gared asks.

Allayi gestures to the direwolf. “They were hunting her. They probably wanted be sure that it would kill her.”

“Is there anything we can do for the queen then?”

“Perhaps…” Allayi says, standing. She walks over to her horse and rummages through the saddlebags.

“Bugger your _perhaps_ ,” Sandor says, “Can you do anything or not?”

“Gods, shut up, man. You are like _vikeesi_. I see what I can do, but whether or not she’ll heal…” she trails off as she brings some herbs and bandages, kneeling at Sansa’s side once again, “…that depends on her body.”

She pulls Sansa up into a sitting position and motions for Gared to hold her. She pulls her dress and shift down, revealing her breasts. Gared blushes and turns his face away. A bit of anger flows through Sandor’s veins from another man seeing her this way, but he quickly purges the thought, knowing that that this was unavoidable. Allayi places what looks like moss over Sansa’s wound and wraps a bandage tightly over her shoulder and across her chest. When she’s done she pulls Sansa’s dress and shift back to rights and lays her back down.

Allayi then takes the herbs she’s set in her lap, some garlic, and a waterskin. She stuffs each herb in her mouth and even a full clove of garlic, chewing them for a few seconds. She pops the cork off her waterskin and takes a long swig, her cheeks puffing up from how full they are. She then opens Sansa’s mouth, leans over, and proceeds to spit the mixture into her open mouth.

“That’s disgusting!” Gared exclaims.

When she’s filled Sansa’s mouth, Allayi gently closes her mouth and tips her chin back. Sansa’s neck bobs as she swallows.

“You want live queen or dead one?” Allayi asks, glaring at him. Gared has nothing to say to that, simply looking back to Sansa. “That is all I can do for her. The rest is up to gods.”

_You cannot have her._

“I won’t let them take her,” Sandor says, his voice firm.

“Oh? Do you command gods now?” Allayi says in a mocking tone.

He ignores her jape. “We need to keep moving and leave this wood.”

“Her body needs to lie and rest. She not ride on horse.”

“I don’t care what your dead mother taught you. I say we keep going, so we’ll keep going.” He reaches to pick up Sansa but is pushed back when the direwolf places a paw protectively over her. She shoves the others aside with her snout, growling low and fur bristling across her back.

“Damned wolf,” he curses, “Are you two going to help me kill this wolf bitch, or do I have to do it myself?”

Sandor places a hand on the hilt of his sword, but Gared stands in his way, lifting his hands to try and calm him as if he were an actual dog. “Wait. I think she’s just trying to protect the queen is all.”

“Why you say that? Does wolf whisper in your thoughts?” Allayi crosses her arms in front of her chest, cocking her hip and raising a skeptical brow.

“No. I’m no warg, but…” he trails off, turning around and looking at the great beast. “The Stark sigil is a grey direwolf, and all the Stark children had one for a pet. Even the bastard had one.” Gared places a hand beneath his chin as though he were contemplating. “King Robb had a direwolf called Grey Wind, and he looked a little like this one, only smaller. I know that Queen Sansa and Princess Arya took theirs south with them. Her Grace’s wolf died at Darry, so I’ve heard, but the other one…”

“Get to the point, boy,” Sandor barks, impatient.

Gared turns back to him and Allayi. “What if this is Princess Arya’s wolf? The one who was never found.”

Sandor narrows his eyes at the beast. He supposes it could be possible. There is a familiar quality about the wolf that he can’t quite seem to place. Still, they are a long way from Darry. “Why is she this far north?”

“Maybe she’s migrating,” Gared suggests, shrugging, “Either way, Queen Sansa didn’t want us to kill her.”

Allayi nods. “He’s right. And I have feeling we won’t win fight against her.”

Sandor sighs. “Very well. We’ll find some way to get Sansa moving without upsetting the wolf bitch.”

They get to work immediately, gathering sticks, leaves, vines, anything they feel might be useful. He tries to wash Sansa with some water, but the wolf won’t let him anywhere near her. Allayi takes over the task, instead, much to his displeasure. He helps Gared in constructing a makeshift cot for Sansa. Once that’s done, they gently pick her up and lay her on it, strapping her down with some vines. The great wolf lays down next to her and they situate her on the wolf’s broad back using the longer vines to bind the cot to her so that Sansa doesn’t fall off.

The wolf stands once Sansa is secure and points her head upwards, a long howl escaping from her and echoing through the wood.

Hundreds of howls answer back, and Sandor notices bright eyes watching them through the mists. Dozens of wolves stalk into the clearing, staring at them with hungry eyes and slaver dripping from their jaws. Sandor draws his sword. A wolf pounces towards him, but before they can meet the great direwolf blocks the little wolf’s path, smacking him out of the way with her paw. She growls at the little one and he stalks back to his brothers and sisters.

“She is protecting us,” Allayi observes.

“Thank the gods,” Gared mumbles, “We should probably start moving now in case she changes her mind.”

They mount their horses and start following the great wolf through the wood. Her packmates follow close behind them and some disappear into the mist and bushes. They follow the wolf for a few days, the fog getting less and less with each step they take. The trees are getting bigger too, Sandor notices. During the day, all they do is follow her. It seems really odd to him why this wolf is so willing to lead them, but he doesn’t complain much.

He mostly just hates how useless he feels. The wolf won’t let him anywhere near Sansa, especially at night. When the sky grows dark and they make camp, the wolf’s eyes change to grey. Allayi is the one who cleans Sansa and gives her more of the garlic mixture. She unties her from the wolf’s back and lays her on the ground, so the wolf can have a rest. But it takes the wolf so long to fall asleep, because she’s constantly watching Sandor, growling deeply and foaming at the mouth.

And Sansa seems to be getting worse. Sometimes her skin will be so boiling hot that they have to cover her in wet cloth while other times she’ll be so cold that they have to bundle her up in their cloaks. She has nightmares too, fever dreams. He can here her whispering from atop the wolf. What terrifies him the most is when she speaks to her dead family. _Robb, please, make it stop. Father, it hurts so bad._ Sometimes she’ll go into a fit, screaming and crying, and Allayi will climb on top of the wolf or hold her if she’s on the ground. Her singing is the only thing that calms Sansa.

_Only through death can she find happiness._

He could end her suffering, he knows. If he pierced her heart with his blade, she would feel no more pain. But even the thought makes him want to vomit. He won’t do that to her. He _can’t_. He can’t imagine the world, his life without Sansa Stark there. Could he really, selfishly, keep her here, though? Everyone she’s ever loved is either dead or out of her reach. She can’t go home. She is one of the most wanted people in all of Westeros.

“You’re brooding again.”

He glares at Allayi at the other side of the fire. “Shut the fuck up, woman.”

“ _Shut the fuck up, woman_ ,” she mocks, “Why do you men do this? Hide feelings with harsh words and show no emotion. Does it give you some secret power? Does it make you immortal?”

“I said shut the fuck up, woman,” he growls.

“I am no slave,” she says, baring her teeth. “Look at you, moping like a boy who broke toy. My mother and father were butchered in front of me. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” Her eyes become glossy. “And Jaehra, my sweet beautiful Jaehra. I not even know if she’s alive, if she’s found someone else. I wanted her to come with me, but she went with Dragon Queen instead. And I abandoned her, left her there in that cesspit of a city. And for what?” She points to Sansa. “For a dead queen?”

That does it for him. He stands. “Shut the fuck _up_ , you whore! She’s not dead!”

“She might as well be!” she yells back, standing. “Every day she gets sicker and sicker and I can’t do anything about it!”

“Stop it, both of you!” Gared interjects. “You need to calm down before you say something you both regret.” Allayi wipes at her eyes before turning and storming off into the mists.

Gared moves to go after her. “Let her go. She’ll be back once her tantrum is over!” Sandor shouts, loud enough for her to hear.

Gared glares at him. “You don’t have to be an arsehole. You realize she’s been through hell, right?”

“I don’t give a fuck what she’s been through.”

“If you just asked her about her life, you’d probably realize you have a lot in common. She’s just as upset as you are over this whole ordeal.”

“Oh really?” Sandor scoffs. He can hear his heart pounding into his ears, the Hound desperately trying to force its way out. “I had to stand by every day back in King’s Landing and watch the Kingsguard beat her. Me, in that bloody white cloak she always wears. And she doesn’t even hold it against me. I never even asked for her forgiveness, and she just gave it to me, like the sweet little bird she is.” He knows that he should stop. _You’re revealing too much of yourself,_ he thinks, but the words just pour out of him like water falling from a cliff. “And that fucking Umber she was supposed to marry, I beat the life out of him because he’d taken her from me. He’d never even done me wrong. She wasn’t even mine to begin with.” He clenches and unclenches his fists at his sides. “And now I have to sit here and just watch the woman I love die, watch her be in pain. I vowed to always protect her, and I fucked it all up.”

Everything was deathly silent for a moment after that. He slumps against a tree, his hands coming up to rub at his face.

“I’m sorry,” Gared says, solemnly. “I can’t say that I’ve ever watched someone be beaten, but my mother she- she got real sick after she gave birth to my sister. It took months for her to die, and my father was beside himself in grief. I took care of my sister and the farm _alone_ for a while, and I was at my wit’s end. I wanted to mourn too, and I…I did for a time, but life has to go on.

“And I know what it’s like to love someone you can’t have. Lady Talia, she’s so beautiful. She has this adorable button nose and these big brown eyes. Her hair is blonde, too. You don’t really see that much in the north. She has a determination unlike any I’ve ever seen; she’s as stubborn as a mule. But she _cares_ so much. I hate that I can’t tell her how I feel, but that wouldn’t be fair to her. Besides, it can never be.”

Sandor’s stomach turns at the realization that he’d said that he loves Sansa. Not because he’s ashamed of it. He could never feel shame for loving a woman like her. He’s more so confused about whether or not it is actually love that he is feeling for her. _Do I even know what love looks like?_ He remembers a time when his mother had kissed a bruise on his elbow when Gregor had hit him too hard during a sparring match. If he tries hard enough, he can even remember holding a small baby in his arms, with black hair and silver eyes much like his own. He’d promised to protect her too.

Gared clears his throat, bringing him out of his reveries. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to turn your pain back around to me. All I meant was…” He looks up to meet Sandor’s gaze. “…you’re among friends. I don’t know what all you’ve done or been through, but I won’t judge you for speaking your mind. I can’t really say the same for Allayi; you know how angry she gets, and she doesn’t trust men so easily. If you open up to her, though, she’ll come around.”

Sandor turns his head away from him, an unfamiliar burning making his throat dry. He’s never had friends before; surely, this boy was lying. However, there was no lie in his gaze. That seems to scare Sandor almost as much as his realization that he loves Sansa. He’d been surrounded by monstrous human beings almost his entire life: his brother, the Lannisters, the whoresons in King’s Landing.

“You know, I think the queen is going to be all right. She’s a strong person. She’s been through a lot worse than this, and whenever she wakes up you can tell her all that you told me.”

_He’s right there_ , Sandor inwardly agrees. It seems an ill fate to have gone through the worst hells in the world just to die by poison in a forest. The statement does little to kindle his hope, though. Robb had been through hell too, and he’d been butchered at a wedding because his enemies were too cowardly to fight him on the battlefield. This world that he lives in is not known for favoring the good.

“I can see that you have a lot on your mind,” Gared says, “I’ll leave you be. I’m going to go look for Allayi and make sure she doesn’t get herself hurt.”

With that, Sandor is left alone to his thoughts. The wolf bitch has already gone to sleep, snoring loudly while Sansa rests against her fluffy belly. He walks over, careful so as to not wake the wolf up and get his head bitten off. He kneels beside Sansa, gently clasping her ankle within his grasp.

“We’re almost out of this forest, Little Bird,” he says, gently caressing her from heel to knee. “You’ll be home in the north soon. You’ll see Jon again. Don’t you want to take back Winterfell?” _Can you even hear me?_ Her skin is burning and slick with sweat. He feels the sting of tears behind his eyes and curses as his heart pulses painfully from within his chest. He turns his head away from her in a jerking movement, even though she can’t possibly see his tears.

“Gods damn it, Sansa. Wake up!” he rasps, a lump forming in his throat. “If you don’t wake up, I’ll…I’ll…” He can’t even think on what he’ll do, what’ll happen to him. She’s the reason for everything he does. He leans over her, burying his face into her dress. “Please, Sansa. Little Bird,” he sobs, bunching her skirts in his hands. “Don’t leave me like this. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do without you.”

_Let her go._

She moans in her sleep. “Sandor.” She begins stirring. “No. No no no no no no.” She cries out, arching her back and sweat dripping from her brow. “It hurts. Make it stop.”

He grabs ahold of her by instinct, enveloping her in his embrace. His fingers tangle in her hair, still surprisingly soft despite not being properly washed since they left the inn. He presses his lips to the top of her head, inhaling her scent. Her hand reaches up to clutch his bicep, but she is still groaning.

A lullaby comes to mind then, one he hasn’t heard since he was a child. A soft song that would assuredly be ruined from his rough voice, but he needs to calm her. Sansa would love it if she were awake. If she sung it, it would surely be the most beautiful song in the world.

He lifts a hand to her face and begins to sing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took me a bit to get just right. Nevertheless, let me know what you think!


	6. The Wolf Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess who's back, back again!
> 
> So I finished school for the semester so I should have a little extra time to write. I am moving into a new house, though, so a majority of my time will be focused on that.
> 
> Either way, here's the new chapter. It's definitely one of my favorite chapters. As always, let me know whether you like or dislike something, and I hope you enjoy it!

“ _The realm…the realm knows…what a wretched king I’ve been. Bad as Aerys, the gods spare me._ ”

“ _I want him dead, the traitor. I want his head, you’ll bring me his head, or you’ll burn with all the rest. All the traitors._ ”

“ _If Robert finds out, he’ll kill him. You know he will._ ”

“ _Little cat. My little cat. I watched for you…_ ”

“ _Love’s not always wise, I’ve learned. It can lead us to great folly, but we follow our hearts…wherever they take us._ ”

“ _Khal vos zigereo adoroon anevasoe maan. Me zigeree sajosoon disse._ ”

“ _No man has ever died from bending his knee. He who kneels may rise again, blade in hand. He who will not kneel stays dead, stiff legs and all._ ”

“ _You’re mine. Mine, as I’m yours. And if we die, we die. All men must die, Jon Snow. But first we’ll live._ ”

“ _Sweet one, listen to me. When you’re old enough, I will make you a match with a high lord who’s worthy of you, someone brave…_

“ _…and gentle…_

“ _…and strong…_ ”

Each voice floats through the air as she falls deeper and deeper into the darkness. They sound far off and muffled, as though she were in water, and yet they reverberate within her with an unnatural clarity. Her hair flows all around her, fiery tendrils surrounding and engulfing her. She can’t see anything, though she feels tiny hands grabbing at her. Or perhaps they are pulling her ever downwards. _How strange,_ she thinks.

She tries desperately to remember how she got here. She remembers…Arya…or Nymeria. Had she simply imagined that the wolf was Arya? Sandor, Allayi, and Gared had been there as well. She’d jumped in front of Nymeria to protect Sandor. And then the wolf’s eyes had changed from grey to gold.

Then there was just…nothing. The voices were what woke her. But surely, she’s just dreaming. She’s certain she’d merely fainted. She squeezes her eyes shut, concentrating on waking up. _None of this is real. You’re going to wake up in Sandor’s arms, and everything will be fine. You’ll leave the forest, and then you’ll be home, in the north. And you can go see Jon at the Wall. You can tell him how sorry you are for the way you treated him._

_But you have to wake up._

And she does.

However, it is not from within her body that she finds herself. She tries to crane her neck, but an excruciating stab of pain jolts up her body from her shoulder. She cries out but not with her own voice. It is a whimper, like the one Grey Wind had made when the Freys had killed him. She opens her eyes. She is in a grove, sequoia and ironwood trees towering above her. She can smell water and the indistinct smell of others like her nearby, but anytime she tries to turn her head and look her shoulder aches.

She’s hungry too; completely famished, as though she hasn’t eaten in days. She craves to rip into something alive and taste their hot blood on her tongue, feel their flesh nourish her body. She opens her mouth to lick at her lips, and she feels sharp teeth scrape against the bottom of her tongue. Her mouth is also very long she realizes. And dry. She needs to drink.

She tries to push herself up, ignoring the blinding pain shooting through her body with each movement. As steadily as she can manage, she stands on four legs. She hoists her neck up and sees a large pond, its depths crystalline and pure. At the center is a small island with a heart tree growing strong and tall with a tranquil face. She steps towards the pool, only to lose her footing. She whines in pain when she hits the ground.

She uses every ounce of strength she can muster to crawl across the floor, her legs shaking from exhaustion. When she has made it to the water’s edge, she sticks out her tongue. Tentatively, she wets her tongue before greedily plunging her mouth into the water and gorging it down. She starts coughing and choking when she drinks far too quickly, almost vomiting.

She sees herself in the reflection of the water’s surface then. Though, it is not _her_ that she is seeing. Instead a large direwolf stares back at her with blue eyes exactly like her own. Her fur is red with tufts of white around her snout and brown at the hollows of her ears. Before she can study more of her appearance, she blacks out…

…and falls to the ground, knees scraping against stone. She gasps for breath, her hands searching through the darkness. _I’m here again?_ It’s then that she remembers one fatal detail. Her fingers graze over her shoulder, where the arrow had hit her. She feels a rough scar there in its place. _Am I…am I dead?_ Her eyes water at the realization.

Was this darkness the only thing she would know for all eternity? The septons always said that there were seven heavens where the dead could feast and laugh and sing with their loved ones for the rest of time. Where is her father and mother? Her brothers? Is she in one of the seven hells? This doesn’t look like any hell that she could ever imagine.

Then she remembers Sandor and Arya and Jon. The tears overflow from her eyes and streak down her cheeks. She cries, pounding a fist into the ground. She’d never gotten to see her living siblings before passing on. She didn’t even make it home. She feels so useless; the failure weighs down on her unyieldingly, crushing her to the floor. She weeps even louder. Had Robb felt this way when the Freys had killed him? And Sandor…

“I didn’t get to…” she sobs, “I never told him I…”

Even in death she can’t say it. She screams in anguish.

A rustling somewhere within the darkness catches her attention. She yelps, searching frantically. Her eyes can just barely make out a figure, and once she realizes what it is… _who_ it is…her blood runs cold and throat becomes dry. Hateful glowing green eyes penetrate her and black blood oozes from his nose and mouth, as though there were no end of it.

“Traitorous bitch…” he growls, his voice distorted and menacing. “How did you get here? Were you killed, like me?”

She can’t bring herself to answer him. She is paralyzed in fear. This Joffrey doesn’t even resemble the one she knew. And he’s angrier, more sadistic. She can feel it radiating from his body, the amount of hate he’s carried with him to the grave.

He hobbles closer to her, and she clumsily pushes away from him. “Don’t you back away from me, cunt!” he shouts, “I should’ve killed you. You and that damned _dog_. I should’ve hacked your head from your shoulders like your father.”

She reaches beneath her skirts feeling the handle of her dagger at her calf. She puts on a fierce expression, steeling her nerves. “You can’t hurt me. We may both be dead, but you have no one here. My brothers and father will be here soon enough, and you will be nothing but ash.”

He stumbles back as though he’s afraid of that very scenario, so she continues, “They’ll rip you apart, and when they’ve broken you they’ll tear your beating heart from your chest. I’ll bathe in your blood for the rest of time.”

His fear turns to rage, and he laughs.

Sansa feels her skin blanche, knowing that she won’t be able to scare him. She tries again. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave. Don’t you think you’ve failed enough in _life_? You wouldn’t want to continue that in death.”

His face twists grotesquely, and more blood gushes from his mouth. “Shut up, you whore! I was the one true king of _all_ the seven kingdoms. You should’ve been honored that I’d even considered you to be my bride. I smashed my usurper uncle’s army in the Blackwater and did the same to your brother’s army at the Twins. I would’ve squashed all my enemies if that dwarf hadn’t killed me.”

Sansa tightens her fingers around her dagger. “Leave me be, or you’ll be sorry.”

He lunges at her, his clammy hands grasping her throat. She unsheathes her dagger and drives it into his stomach. He chokes a little from the blood in his throat and looks down to her blade. She pulls it out slowly, blood gushing from the wound as it’s being withdrawn. He lifts a hand to the gash, his features contorting viciously. He lunges for her again.

A low rumble echoes all around her, and a grey blur jumps out from the corner of her vision, ripping into Joffrey’s arm. He wails as he’s wrenched away from her, blood pouring from the new wound on his arm. She turns her head to see what has come to her rescue. She widens her eyes, heart beating rapidly within her chest.

“Lady…”

She is exactly as Sansa remembers her. Her grey fur glistens even within the darkness of this hell that they’ve found themselves in. Her golden eyes shine ominously in the dark, but still Sansa can feel the good from them. She knows Lady better than she’s ever known anything and seeing her here now Sansa feels her anxiety vanish. Sansa runs her fingers down her wolf’s back, and she feels happy tears sting her eyes from the familiarity.

“You stupid bitch!” Joffrey hisses, bringing Sansa’s attention back to the situation at hand. He reaches for his belt and unsheathes a longsword. Sansa’s mouth falls open in surprise before furrowing her brows in anger and grinding her teeth together. _That’s not your sword._

The Valyrian steel of the blade ripples black and red. Though the hilt is glittering gold with a lion’s head and rubies, Sansa knows her father’s sword anywhere. The steel sings with the voices of the old gods.

He raises the sword above his head. “I’ll butcher your wolf and force her entrails down your throat!”

“No!” Sansa shouts. She will not stand by and lose her Lady ever again. She falls to her knees, wrapping her arms around her wolf, anticipating the ripping of flesh against her back. A loud booming penetrates the quietness of the dark, and a gust of wind sends her hair swirling all around them. The clattering of steel on stone catches her attention, and she turns to see Joffrey splayed on the ground a few steps away from her, limbs bent unnaturally around him. The sword lays abandoned in front of her, glowing.

She reaches out and touches the hilt, the voices of the old gods ringing in her ears. There are so many, but she can’t seem to make out what any of them are saying. She tightens her fist around the golden handle, and the wind returns in a huge burst. The sword’s glow intensifies, her eyes widening and tearing up at the beauty of it all. She watches, completely dazzled, as the hilt changes from gold to iron. The lion’s head forges itself anew, back into its original shape. The blue smoke color that Ice had saturates until the red and black are no longer seen. Though, it is not a perfect copy, only a half of a whole. Sansa’s heart still rejoices at the sight.

It weighs almost nothing in her grip, and she turns to Joffrey, glancing at his broken body. He cranes his neck up and spits his black blood at her feet. “What did you do to me?!” The sight of him lying there on the ground, useless and shattered, makes her a little sad. She knows how it feels to be at the mercy of someone who wants to hurt you. She wouldn’t wish that on anyone. “I’ll rip you apart, you traitorous whore!”

_No. Don’t feel sorry for him,_ she thinks, closing her eyes and grasping the hilt of the sword in both hands. _He didn’t feel sorry for you. Do your duty. Give them their justice. Robb, mother, father…Bran and Rickon too…_ She feels Lady’s nose rubbing against her hip. Tears sting the back of her eyes. _And Lady…_ She opens her eyes and stares down at Joffrey, her expression hard and unfeeling. She lifts the blade above his body, aiming for the heart, and brings it swiftly down through his chest.

The darkness flees as the wind picks up again. Joffrey writhes and screams in agony, his body melting before her into a black puddle. As soon as his wailing stops, so too does the wind. Sansa looks to where his body used to be, where it’s becoming one with the soil below. A small round object is nestled in the grass and red leaves. When she picks it up, the surface is rough. She realizes it’s a fruit when she squeezes it and feels its soft insides move with her prodding.

She smiles down at Lady when the wolf sniffs at the fruit in her hand, bringing her attention to her surroundings. In front of her stands a weirwood heart tree with a melancholic face, its eyes bleeding dried red sap. Behind her is a pool, its depths black. All around her are trees of different kinds: sentinels, ironwood, oaks, and she assumes she’s in a godswood. When she turns to her left she sees a stone wall past the tree line with an iron gate leading to a castle. Her eyes widen.

_Winterfell…_

She’s sure of it. One of the towers beyond the wall is the Guest House. And the other tower is where she and her family used to sleep. Her eyes fill with tears, and she giggles, kneeling down and wrapping her arms around Lady’s neck. She closes her eyes and nuzzles her face in the direwolf’s fur, her giggling becoming hysterical.

“I’ve made it!” she exclaims, “I’m home!” She separates from Lady and the wolf licks at her face. Sansa laughs, her hand coming to caress the wolf’s muzzle. The tears the wolf licks off her cheeks are replaced immediately after; Sansa is so overcome with joy. Eventually her happy sobs and laughter quiet, and she stares at her wolf with adoring eyes.

“Lady…” she says, “You never left me.” The wolf stares back at her. _Never._ Sansa scratches her between the ears, laughing when her wolf sighs happily from the touch. “Our souls are bound to each other.” Happiness pulses through her heart, making her eyes water once again. “I was so lost and scared all this time, and yet…” Sansa sobs, “…and yet you were always there, apart of me.” She burrows her forehead against her wolf’s snout.

“Sansa!”

She hears someone calling her and turns, knowing immediately who it is. Her father stands at the open gate to the godswood. Robb is there as well, Grey Wind standing protectively at his side. There are others there too, other Starks whom Sansa’s never seen before. A man and woman that look a lot like her father stand behind him. _Is that my Uncle Brandon and my Aunt Lyanna?_ And there is another older man behind them, with grey in his brown beard and hair. Her grandfather, Rickard Stark, she presumes, and a woman next to him who she thinks is her grandmother, Lyarra. She instantly notices that neither her mother, Bran, or Rickon are there. She wonders if they are waiting for her in the castle, and she stands and gathers her skirts, excited to spend all of eternity with her family.

But the sound of raspy singing fills the air and stops her. She turns around, drawn to the sound. There is a small campfire on the right side of the heart tree, three horses grazing on the side. Nymeria is sleeping on one side of the fire, and when she sees herself and Sandor cuddled up at the direwolf’s belly, her heart flutters.

The songs he sings is unfamiliar to her, and his voice is not the prettiest thing she’s ever heard. However, it is something so new to her, so unlike him, that it moves her to tears. She can tell that he’s crying, or at least trying to hold back tears. Seeing him like this breaks her heart.

He sobs, stopping his singing, and it saddens Sansa that the moment is over. “Little Bird…My little bird…Please, wake up,” he says, “You can’t just leave me like this.”

“Why are you showing me this?” she whispers, to no one in particular. She doesn’t understand what is happening. She looks at the sorrowful face of the heart tree, hoping to find answers. She closes her eyes trying to listen for the guidance of the old gods. She feels Lady lick her hand, and she looks down at her wolf.

_Choose,_ she hears from within, _Choose, and I will follow._

“I have to choose?” Sansa asks. Her heart sinks. How can anyone expect her to make this sort of decision? Why is it that _she_ gets to choose whether or not she lives or dies? Why hadn’t anyone in her family gotten the choice?

She looks to her left, where her family remains smiling at her. Death, the other side. A world completely separate from the living one. She can become apart of everything…the wind, the stars…She can be with everyone she’s ever loved, forever. She would never know pain again.

“I love you, Sansa.”

Her eyes widen and she turns around quickly, towards where she and Sandor lay. Her eyes fill at the brim with tears, but she cannot blink. She doesn’t want to take her eyes off him. Her heart beats wildly in her chest, and blood rushes to her head, making her feel faint. She clasps her hands in front of her chest, his words replaying in her head over and over.

_I love you, Sansa._

Living. Feeling. Being in love.

“I love you so gods damn much, Little Bird.”

Growing old together.

“Please, wake up.”

There are so many things that she still must do. And in that moment, she’s made her decision. She turns back to her family, the tears escaping from her eyes. She misses them so bad, it physically hurts. She longs to spend the rest of eternity with them, to dance and laugh and sing with them. But she cannot leave Sandor behind. She’d never forgive herself.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers.

Nobody looks angry or disappointed, though. All they do is smile and nod to her in understanding. Grey Wind howls, and Lady answers his call with her own. _I will see you again, brother._ Sansa turns away and approaches Sandor and her sleeping form, Lady at her side. She kneels and places her hand over her other’s heart.

She opens her eyes, the light of the morning sun making her head pound and blurring her vision. When her sight is finally able to focus, she notices the branches of the trees above her moving, and she wonders if the trees are walking. She turns her head to look around, trying to bend her arms so she can roll over or sit up, but her arms are bound to her side. Her shoulder aches unlike anything she’s ever felt.

“…San…dor…” she gasps, her voice sore and hoarse from disuse. She tastes garlic in her mouth and suppresses the urge to vomit. She tries again, “Sandor…my love…”

The vines rustle as someone pulls themselves up, Sansa’s spine tingling with relief when she sees Allayi’s face. Her features turn from apathetic to surprise to joy when she notices Sansa’s alert state. “Hey, stop! She’s awake!” she shouts, laughter in her throat. Sansa notices tears in the corner of her eyes, but she quickly wipes them away. Everything comes to a stop, and she panics when Allayi slides off of whatever she’s perched on. She does not want to be alone, bound, and scared. She wants Sandor.

“No…please…” she croaks, eyes watering from the pain in her shoulder.

She feels her bed lower. “Hurry up and get her down!” She hears Sandor’s voice and wriggles within her confines to try and get to him. “We’re going as fast as we can. These knots are too damn tight.” She recognizes Gared’s voice. Finally, two pairs of hands grab her cot and pull her down. Gared and Allyai begin untying her restraints, but it is not them that she wants to see. Their hands fumble about the knots in the vines, and she gets restless, tossing and turning within the furs that cover her. She moans in frustration.

Nymeria’s wet nose nuzzles against Sansa’s cheek. _Be calm, sister._

“No…no…” she rasps, “Sandor…Where is he?”

“Get the fuck out of my way,” Sandor growls pushing his way between Allayi and Gared. “Useless, the both of you. I should butcher and feed you to the wolves.”

Her heart leaps when she sees his burnt face twisted in gentle annoyance. “Sandor…I lo- “she breaks into a fit of coughs.

“Shh, Little Bird…” he rumbles, his voice creating pleasant shivers down her back. “I’m here. I won’t leave your side.”

_I love you!_ She wants to scream from the top of her lungs, but her throat is too dry to form words. He unsheathes a hunting dagger from his belt and cuts the vines keeping her pinned to the cot. When her arm is free, she reaches for him, laying her hand gently against his burnt cheek. Once she’s rid of her ties, he wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her out from beneath the furs, hugging her close to his chest. He lifts a large hand to her cheek with a gentleness one wouldn’t expect in a giant like him, but she knows him better than that. His fingers tangle into her copper mane as he stares into her eyes, his features unreadable as he searches her face for any sign of discomfort.

He turns away from her, and she whines at the loss of his silver gaze. “What are you two standing about for? Get her some water.”

Allayi pulls her waterskin from her palomino’s saddlebag. She kneels in front of Sansa, holding the skin to her lips tenderly. She instructs Sandor to tip Sansa’s head back. “Drink slow, Queen,” she says, her voice kind and soothing.

The water is sweeter than lemon cakes, and greed consumes her mind as she tries to slurp more water. Allayi does not let her engorge herself, though, pulling the skin back every time Sansa barely gets a sip past her cracked lips. Sandor never takes his eyes off her, his stare penetrating to the deepest part of her soul, and she matches it with her own.

Once Sansa’s drank enough, he orders for camp to be made so she can break her fast. She realizes how hungry she is then, her stomach groaning loudly. Embarrassed, she places her hand over her tummy, but she doesn’t feel the rush of blood to her cheeks. Sansa pushes herself up on shaky legs, but it’s been so long since she’s used them that her knees buckle. Before she can fall, Sandor bends and sweeps her up into his arm, holding her as a man would hold his bride.

He situates her at the base of a tree trunk while Gared prepares a fire at her feet. The heat does not beat the chill off completely, but Sandor secures her cloak tighter around herself. Allayi busies herself with heating the haunch of a rabbit. Once it’s finished warming, she places the leg in Sansa’s waiting fingers.

“Take small bites. Eat too fast or too much, you will be throwing it up,” Allayi says, “You understand?”

“Yes, I do,” Sansa answers, “Thank you for taking care of me.”

Allayi looks thoughtful for a moment before saying, “You should be having soup, but there is no pot for me to cook.”

“It’s all right; I’ll manage.” But it is easier said than done. The moment Sansa bites into the rabbit’s flesh, the more ravenous she becomes. She desperately craves to suck the bone till it’s dry, but she can already feel her tummy clenching angrily within her from just a single bite. When she is through, her stomach still grumbles, craving more even through the nausea. She feels through the pockets in her cloak, wondering if she has any small foods stored away. Her hand clasps around something rough and round, and her heart leaps into her throat.

She pulls out the small black fruit, the same one that had been produced from Joffrey’s blood. _How did it get here?_ Perhaps it was a gift from the gods, but her stomach turns unpleasantly at the memory of watching Joffrey’s body melt into the earth. Still, she’s hungry. She tentatively bites into the fruit, pulling off a small piece only to taste. Her nose scrunches up. It tastes like the medicine Maester Luwin used to give her and her siblings when they were sick.

When she swallows, a sharp pain pierces her shoulder as though someone were pressing a thumb into her wound. She cries out, dropping the fruit and clutching her shoulder.

Sandor is immediately at her side, grasping her upper arms in his hands when she hunches over on her hands and knees. “What’s happening to you?!”

She can’t answer him, can’t form the words to describe the pain that she’s in. It feels like her shoulder is being ripped apart only to be put back together again. White speckles overtake her vision, and bile rises in her throat as she screams in agony. Then the pain is gone as quickly as it came, tears escaping from Sansa’s eyes at the memory of it. And her shoulder doesn’t ache anymore. She rolls the bone languidly, experimentally, and feels no pain.

Allayi kneels at her side, directing her to sit up. “Let me check wound.” She pulls Sansa’s dress down and undoes the bandage around her shoulder. She gently moves the moss aside, her eyes widening in astonishment. “It…It’s healed…”

Sure enough, when Sansa looks, a jagged pink scar has taken its place on her porcelain skin. She tilts her head to the side. “Isn’t it because of your healing?”

“Of- of course, but…” Allayi stumbles over her words, perplexed. “It should have taken weeks, months even, before the healing was done.” She glances around, wide eyes spotting the fruit in the dirt. She picks it up, turning it around and examining it. “What is this?”

“I don’t know, but I think it’s some type of fruit,” Sansa answers honestly.

“Where did you get it?”

Sansa’s cheeks color remembering the hell she was stuck in with Joffrey. She can’t possibly tell them all of that, or they would think she is as mad as King Aerys. “I…I don’t remember,” she says. She notices Sandor narrow his eyes at her from the corner of her vision, clearly detecting her lie. _I will explain everything to him later,_ she thinks. She knows that she can tell him anything, and he’d never think her insane for it.

“Amazing…” Gared gasps, peering over Allayi’s shoulder. “This thing healed you completely in seconds…”

They don’t even have time to rest before Nymeria becomes restless, and they are forced to go on the move again. Sandor grasps her by the waist and lifts her onto Stranger before mounting up behind her. She can just barely make out the shapes of other smaller wolves following them within the shadows of the trees and huddles closer against Sandor’s chest. He tightens his hold around her, sending pleasant shivers through her body. It feels like only moments ago when she thought she’d never see him again, and yet here she is in his loving embrace.

It isn’t long before she smells something familiar in the air, and the trees become much larger than they were before. Lush moss covers the path they walk, and the wolves start to howl their return. When she sees the spring with the heart tree island in the center, she knows exactly where they are.

“I was here,” she whispers to herself.

Though, Sandor hears. “What do you mean?”

“While I was sleeping, I came here,” she explains, “But I wasn’t in my body. When I looked in the water, I was a direwolf.”

Sansa scans her surroundings as they continue forward, and sure enough there is a red direwolf larger than a horse lying near the waters edge, a huge gash across her shoulder. At first, she thought the wolf was dead, but upon further inspection see can see a subtle rise and fall from its stomach. The wound oozes a disgusting pus, and her fur is matted with blood. Nymeria approaches the smaller direwolf, licking the little one’s cheek with her large tongue.

Sansa feels something strange and primal overtake her, as if she is no longer the host of her own body. She pushes herself off Stranger’s back, stumble running to the dying wolf. She falls to her knees at the wolf’s head, reaching her hand to its large muzzle. The direwolf’s golden eyes instantly focus on her, clasping her wrist within its jaws, growling low. Sansa flinches, though feels no pain biting into her flesh. The wolf is far too weak to get a tight hold on her.

She hears her companions go for their weapons, and she snaps her head towards them, nostrils flaring. “No!” she snarls, “You will not hurt her further!” Nymeria at her side also glares at them, her sharp teeth bared menacingly. Allayi and Gared immediately release their weapons, but she sees Sandor’s hand still clasped around the pommel of his sword.

Sansa turns her attention back to the red wolf, her eyes full of sympathy as she gazes down at the open laceration across the direwolf’s shoulder. She grazes her fingers across her own shoulder, a phantom sting resonating from where the arrow had pierced her flesh. Nymeria nuzzles the young wolf’s neck with her nose. _Trust her,_ Sansa hears, _She is like me and you, daughter._

The direwolf’s demeanor seems to calm from that, slowly releasing Sansa from her jaws. She sniffs Sansa’s hand before lightly licking the skin of her wrist as if to ease a non-existent hurt. The wolf’s head lulls to the side, eyes dulling as she stares blankly ahead. Sansa tenderly brushes her hand underneath the direwolf’s wound, carefully so as not to hurt her.

Sansa turns to Allayi. “Isn’t there something we can do for her?” she asks.

Allayi’s brow creases, mouth opening and closing as if she’s unsure of what to say. Finally, she holds her hands out in front of her, palms up, looking at Sansa sadly. “Her wound is many days old, Queen. She will be dead in hour. There is nothing we can do.”

“It would be kinder to put her down, Your Grace,” Gared says.

_No,_ Sansa thinks, panicking as she looks back at the wolf. _There must be something, anything!_ Then she remembers. She digs through her pockets, finding the round black fruit in seconds. She examines it within her palm. It had worked on her, but her wound was significantly smaller and had been properly taken care of. Would this even do anything for the wolf? Sansa is willing to try, at least.

“Here, eat this,” Sansa commands, moving the wolf’s lips aside and trying to push the fruit past its teeth. “It’s medicine. It will heal you.” But the direwolf’s jaws are clamped shut. Sansa hooks her finger’s underneath the wolf’s front teeth, sharp fangs tearing into her skin. She can’t tell if the wetness forming on her hand is blood or saliva, but she doesn’t care. She forces the wolf’s mouth open, and swiftly shoves her fruit filled fist down the wolf’s throat. The direwolf’s eyes widen, completely alert. She releases the wolf’s mouth, enclosing her arms around the wolf’s muzzle tightly. “Now swallow it!”

The wolf struggles against her, thrashing its head about wildly as she stands on shaky legs. Sansa holds on firmly through the wolf’s erratic tossing, her hair whipping around her face. Sansa’s jaw tightens, screwing her eyes shut. She can’t keep her grip forever, though, and slips away from the wolf after a particularly harsh heave. She rolls across the grass, head throbbing from the impact. Sandor’s strong arms wrap around her, lifting her into his embrace. She offers him the briefest of thankful glances before looking back to the direwolf.

The wolf screams in anguish, a sound so terrifying and unnatural that it sends cold shivers through Sansa’s body. She has never heard a sound so distressing. _What did you do to me?!_ Sansa watches in amazement as the gash in the direwolf’s shoulder slowly closes, muscle and skin forming in mere seconds. When the healing is done, the wolf is silent, the gash on her shoulder nothing but a rough bald scar. The wolf experimentally takes a few steps in a circle, head tilting in confusion.

The wolf’s eyes widen like saucers when it notices the water, rushing over to lap as much of it as she can. As Sansa looks over the wolf’s form she sees how skinny she is, guessing that the direwolf hasn’t eaten in many days. Sansa quickly pushes herself up and approaches Allayi’s palomino, withdrawing the remaining rabbit meat from the saddlebag. She moves towards the wolf cautiously while it is distracted from the water. The direwolf eyes her warily once her thirst has been sated, but Sansa meets her gaze unflinchingly. She kneels, placing the rabbit in the grass.

An offering.

The wolf stalks towards her, slaver dripping from its jowls. Sansa can feel it too, how the direwolf hungers, craves to devour every living thing in sight. This measly rabbit cannot satisfy her, but it will be good enough. The wolf sniffs at the meat, the gamey smell filling Sansa’s senses, before ripping savagely into its flesh. She does not even bother with chewing, and Sansa can almost taste the juice from the meal. In seconds, the rabbit is consumed.

The wolf’s gaze is on her then, her expression unreadable. Sansa feels a slight bit of apprehension but stands tall and proud before the direwolf. _I am a direwolf too,_ she silently declares. Perhaps the wolf heard her, because the moment she thinks it the direwolf’s fur bristles and face twists into a hateful scowl.

Her low growling sets Sansa on edge. Farlen, the kennel master at Winterfell, had shown her how to establish dominance when she’d received Lady. However, Lady had been a puppy and the smallest of the litter on top of that. She had been easy to control and train. _This_ direwolf is grown and wild, tamed by no man. And did Farlen truly know anything about pacifying wolves, or was it only dogs?

Sansa’s heart skips a beat when she feels Lady howl within her, and all of her fear disappears. She steels herself, meeting the direwolf’s fearsome glare with her own. She hears the sound of steel being unsheathed behind her and turns to Sandor. “No,” she says, resting her hand against the flat of his blade and gently pushing the point away from the wolf. He seems put off by her command but does as he’s bid.

She turns her attention back to the wolf. “Sit,” she orders.

_No!_ The wolf bounds closer to her, teeth barred as she growls and barks. Her snapping jaws are mere inches away from Sansa’s face, but she will not submit. Sansa _will_ establish herself as the alpha in this pack. She points her finger boldly and says again, “Sit. _Now_.” The wolf continues to growl, though softer this time. Sansa can practically feel the power shift as the direwolf slowly seats herself. Sansa’s heart sings in triumph, but she is not done yet. “Lie down.” The wolf’s golden eyes seem to burn her from the inside out, but she remains strong and firm. The wolf lowers her front paws, lying down on her tummy but keeping her head perked up while she looks at Sansa.

Sansa can tell that the wolf’s patience is being spread thin, and she kneels so that she is level with the wolf’s gaze. The direwolf still glowers at her, and the low growling rumbles through her. She can feel the wolf’s anger pulse in her veins and the connection she has with this creature fascinates her. Though, she can think on this later. She encloses her arms gently around the direwolf’s neck, placing a soft kiss to the wolf’s cheek. She nuzzles her head into the fur on the wolf’s neck.

“Good girl,” she praises, carding her fingers through the wolf’s soft pelt. “Yes, you’re a good girl.”

The anger is gone then, replaced by a serene contentment. The wolf pulls back from Sansa’s embrace, sniffing at her face before licking her cheek. Sansa laughs at the sensation, lightly scratching the wolf between her ears.

However, the wolf isn’t completely obedient yet. All four of them struggle dragging her to the pool so that Sansa can get her cleaned. They even have to hold her back so that she won’t run off into the mud and dirty herself up again. By the time the sun sets, the wolf’s fur is glistening in the light of their campfire.

Allayi had wanted to leave the forest as soon as possible, insisting that they continue their journey at the break of dawn. Sansa thought of Arya and how she’d told her where she was. She’d been able to convince Allayi to let them remain there in the grove for a few days, saying that she still felt too weak to travel.

That night as Allayi and Gared sleep, Sansa cuddles up against Nymeria while the red wolf lays across Sansa’s lap. Sansa lightly strokes her fingertips along the scarring on the wolf’s shoulder, thankful that it doesn’t seem to hurt her. She hums a soft tune while she brainstorms names for her new wolf.

She looks to Sandor, standing away from the fire and looking out into the woods. “Come sleep, Sandor,” she calls, beckoning him towards her with a finger.

“Someone needs to keep watch, Little Bird,” he says, though he still obliges her by approaching her and kneeling in front of her.

“We’re surrounded by wolves,” she answers, Lady perking up inside her and making her heart flutter. “They’ll protect us.”

A smirk plays at his lips. “I don’t trust a pack of wild animals with your life, Sansa.”

“Will you at least sit with me a while?”

“Yes, Little Bird. I’ll sit with you.”

She sits there for a moment, simply staring at him. She can feel the words she wants to say to him tickling the back of her throat, begging to be released. Fear holds her back, though. She’s never been in this situation before. It’s not as easy as the songs make it out to be, confessing your love for someone. Her heart is hammering in her chest, and she can feel a blush heating up her cheeks.

“Where did you get that fruit?” he asks, pulling her from her thoughts. “I know that you were lying to Allayi.”

Her mouth becomes dry from that. She doesn’t even know where to begin. All of her dream had felt so surreal, and yet it had been as tangible as the world around her. She decides to start from the beginning, and he listens. She tells him every detail, though she leaves out her choice at the end. She wants to keep that moment for herself. When she’s finished her tale, he is surprisingly silent, just staring into her eyes. Her hands fidget against the rough skin of her wolf’s scar, heart sinking from his reaction.

_He thinks I’m mad._ “What are you thinking, Sandor?”

He sighs. “I’m not sure what to think, Little Bird.”

“What about Joffrey?” she asks, “You were his sworn shield. Do you feel anything from his death?”

“It was just a dream, Sansa. We don’t even know if he _is_ dead.”

“And if he is?”

“Then good riddance,” he rasps, “That’s one less person in this world who would hurt you. I only wish I could’ve been there to see your drive your sword through him.” He reaches out, taking her small hand within his large one. “I’m so proud of you, Little Bird.”

Tears sting her eyes as she meets his eyes, drowning in the abyss of his silver gaze. “I love you, Sandor.”

His eyes widen, and she feels his pulse quicken against the palm of her hand. “What?”

“I love you,” she says again, the tears falling and dripping down her cheeks and soaking the fur of her wolf. “That’s all I could think about while I was stuck in that darkness. I just wanted to see you again so that I could tell you all that I feel for you.” She laughs through a sob. “I love you so much. I’m sorry for the way I treated you when we first met, for anything I may have done or said that hurt you.”

Again, he is silent, and it only makes her cry more. _Why isn’t he saying anything?_

“Sandor?” _Does he not believe me? How do I make him believe me?_ He leans towards her, hands coming up to cup her cheeks. “Sandor, I _love_ you.”

Then his lips are on hers, so soft and sweet and setting her blood on fire. Her hand lifts to his face, fingertips gently stroking against the rough surface of his scars. She opens her mouth to deepen their kiss, desperate for him to feel how much she loves him. She whines when he pulls away from her, the kiss over far too soon for her liking.

“Shh, it’s all right, Little Bird,” he whispers, thumbs stroking her tears away, “I believe you.” His hands leave her face, and he take ahold of her hand to press tender kisses to her fingertips. “You need to get some sleep now.”

“Please, don’t leave me,” she whimpers.

“I won’t leave,” he says, lightly squeezing her hand. “I’ll stay here until you sleep.”

Sleep comes to her easy that night, and when she dreams it is from the eyes of her wolf.


End file.
